


How to Change the World

by turtleneck



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1957, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970, 65 - Freeform, 70s, 80s, AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Beatles Slash, Coming Out, FUCK, Hurt/Comfort, John's little princess, M/M, McLennon, Slash, The Beatles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtleneck/pseuds/turtleneck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 1960’s: a time notable for its racism, sexism, and change. However, homosexuality was off limits, seen as unanimously unethical and abnormal by the general population.</p><p>That was until 1966, when people began to acknowledge the existence of this, at the time, wildly outrageous topic. Who was there to thank? Of course, none other than Beatle Paul McCartney, the first mainstream celebrity to proclaim their homosexuality openly to the media.</p><p> The world would never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The events mentioned in this story are real events, the only difference being "what if Paul were gay?".  
> This story, however, is still fiction and several parts of it are fabricated. This story contains homophobia, violence, sexual themes, and topics not suitable for younger audiences. Readers discretion is advised.
> 
> To conclude this lengthy and annoying disclaimer, enjoy the story.
> 
> (Wattpad Link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/46175763-how-to-change-the-world)

It was the summer of 1965, the Beatles’ European tour had just begun, and despite the mountains of praise the group received, Paul still felt a great amount of dismay. Fondly remembered in his mind were the streets of Paris, hiding personal secrets of his own past. But there not only fondness within these bustling streets, there was still a pang of sorrow. Certain memories were conjured as they traveled the narrow streets crowded by buildings. Paul could only remember the trip he and John took four years ago through this rich city. Now forever implanted in his mind, Paul allowed himself to reminisce once more of the sleepless nights he and his bandmate spent here. Paul leaned softly against the window of the automobile, resting himself on the glass. Small streets disappeared in the periphery of his vision, and they were soon close to the George V hotel the group was to spend the afternoon in. The bassist’s eyes crept over to John’s figure sitting next to him on the leather seats, his vision resting for a while on his friend. Paul’s eyes explored John’s boy, eventually resting his vision on John’s hands. One insignificant quality of his friend were the beautiful hands he had, but it was only one plus to the intricacy that is John Lennon. Once his eyes found their way to the face of the man sitting next to him, he caught Paul’s eye, flashing him a small vibrant smile. There was a little sense of longing in the bassists eye, and though John’s eyesight was poor, anyone could decipher what Paul was thinking behind those hazel specks. Those lingering eyes fell once again on the outside, his thoughts interrupted when the car door opened.

Around fifty groupies were outside the hotel, waiting for the Beatles arrival, but the crowd wasn’t a large screaming mob. Paul tried to ignore it as a guard escorted him out of the car, along with the rest of The Beatles. Few seconds passed and they made it into the lobby, which was quite beautiful, actually. Paul remembered the marble floors, the glistening chandelier. Though this level of elegance was no stranger, Paul was trying hard to distract himself from his own thoughts. He had a tendency to over think things… a lot. Too much. Maybe just a little.

Brian,their manager, was at the counter in the lobby, checking in the group so they could stay at the hotel a few hours before having to perform on stage. Quickly he was finished, and the group was escorted to their rooms, though Paul wondered why they needed so much assistance, they were grown men after all.

It was hard, because Paul’s eyes kept insisting on looking at John’s. The whole aura of Paris made him bring back so many memories. The very man he was pining for was ignorantly staring at the floor of the elevator they were standing in.

His eyes fell over his auburn locks, cascading so perfectly over his creamy white skin. His lips pressed into a thin line; how he wished he could just.

Just…

John had a soft chestnut coloured eye, under a harsh scruffy brow and voluminous eyelashes. He really couldn’t handle it much longer, he couldn’t stand John’s body involuntarily teasing him so. Why of all the people he could have fallen in love with… why did it have to be John? The one person he couldn’t have. Slowly his mind turned against him, remembering again the moonlight night in Paris. That night he realized he was so hopelessly, desperately in love with his band mate and friend. He remembered what it was like to see John under the stars, face lit only by the moonlight washing over them, eyes sparkling from the starlight. They sat there on a fountain and John didn’t even look directly at him at first, but when he did and met his eyes, his heart beat harshly against his ribcage. It physically hurt to even look at him, but it was the kind of pain you just pushed through. And then he realized, he was so desperately in love…

In that moment he realized, he didn’t want to be famous; he didn’t want all the money in the world. He just wanted John. He wanted to wake up next to him every day; he wanted to stay in his arms forever. But he couldn’t.

And if he was just half as happy as he was in the moments he spent time with John, he’d be the happiest person alive. It was all that ever mattered.

For a moment on that fateful night, John leaned in a little closer to Paul’s face, or maybe it was just Paul’s imagination. Suddenly, his vision of John’s eyes was cut off by his blink. A husky voice said to Paul, “We should be heading back to the hotel.”

The soothing voice made Paul’s breathing more quick, until he finally said the words…

“Uh, sure.”

Seconds later, he was in a hotel room in 1965, his own thoughts distracting him from how he arrived there in the first place. They’ve stayed the night at this hotel before, and tossed around like young children when they had a pillow fight. Again Paul’s memories brought him back to that day he smacked John on the head with a pillow. The next second, he remembered John sitting on top of him with his auburn locks disheveled. They both laughed and looked at each other for longer than was necessary, and he could remember how oddly large John’s pupils had been. He didn’t know what it meant, but it was his distraction until Ringo smashed Paul’s head with a pillow.

Back in reality, the four Beatles and Brian were sat in comfortable chairs in the hotel room, Brian talking all business and such. The room had a nice golden colour scheme with four windows letting in rays of light which brightened the room even more. Paul sat on the edge of his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.

Those mischievous eyes he had moved over to John’s seat next to him. John lay there with his back to the seat, his feet resting on the charcoal coloured marble table in the middle of the room. For a few minutes, Paul’s eyes scanned John’s legs, thinking how much they extended. Suddenly John laughed about something and turned his head to Paul.

“Haha, don’t you think so Paul?” He heard John’s voice say. He wasn’t really sure what they were talking about. Once again he saw the light brown twinkle of John’s eyes, and felt the need to excuse himself.

Paul responded, “Yeah, right… I’ll be right back.” Soon he fled his chair, making his way to the restroom.

After closing the door, he ran the faucet, pouring some water on his face. He couldn’t do this much longer; it was torture just to be put into the same room as John. Every flash of his face made him ache painfully, yet all he could do was keep his eyes on him.

Then he heard a knock on the door.

“Oi, Macca, what are you doin’ in there?”

No, he couldn’t bear to look at John’s face at the moment, it was too much.

“Nothing John, I just needed to er- freshed up.” Paul thought that sounded a little odd.

“What are you a bird or something? Why did you leave like tha’? Is something wrong, mate?”

Paul internally smiled that John was genuinely concerned for him, but externally he tensed up, hands in a fist at his side.

“N-no John. Everything’s fine, I’m alright.”

There was a small longer than usual silence on the other end. All of a sudden the doorknob started to turn. Shit.

“I’m comin’ in, mate. You better not be ‘avin a wank or something.”

Paul just stood leaned over the sink, waiting for John to come in. He knew better than to stop John Lennon.

“Jesus, you look whiter than a ghost. Are you sure you’re fine?” The guitar player slowly walked toward Paul, grabbing the other’s forearms. “If there’s anything wrong, just say it, alright?”

Under John’s arms, the other man felt like mush, his heart started racing again. No, god damn it! Why did he have to do this to him?

“Uhh” Paul said, his voice cracking a little. “I just. I feel a little sick.”

John stared at him a little while, giving a sweet smile. His hands were removed from Paul’s arms, and instead John put his arm around Paul’s neck in a friendly manner. John started to escort Paul out of the bathroom saying, “Ahh, well. I’m sure you’ll get over it, mate. Just sit down for a while, ‘ave a nice cup of tea, and you’ll be fuckin’ fantastic!”

“Yeah, alright,” was the only thing Paul could say, his thoughts focused on the arm around him.

They arrived back into the room with Brian, George, and Ringo still sitting in the chairs having a chat. Brian noticed them coming in and said softly, “Is everything alright, John?”

John said in his usual lighthearted tone, “Ahh, good old Paulie here just feels a little sick, is all.”

The arm around Paul let go, making Paul feel more cold and empty than it usually felt.

“Just sit back down, Paul. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea so you feel better for tonight.” Brian said, getting up from his chair.

Paul smiled a bit at Brian, returning to his chair. He _was_ sick… he was disgusting. He had a mental illness. Paul hated himself for being one of “those” people. It was illegal for a reason, he knew himself how horrible he was.

And as much as he said that to himself, his heart still ached in John’s presence. It was still eager, it was still longing, it was still pining.

He was hopeless.

**~~*~~**

After two performances at the Palais des Sports, the group returned to their hotel and lingered in the room for a while. John took a short kip on one of the couches, while Paul and George had a chat about something he couldn’t remember. Paul wasn’t sure what Ringo was doing, but it was getting somewhat late. A few minutes afterwards, Brain came into their room followed by a very beautiful French woman. Paul only noticed how her auburn hair was similar to John’s, except John’s was much more beautiful, of course.

“George, Paul, this is Françoise Hardy. She’s a popular singer here in France. She came here to meet you all.”

George seemed to already be “intrigued” by the visitor, but was as humble as always.

“Hello, miss. George Harrison.” George said, taking her hand.

Brain noticed that the other two Beatles were missing and asked, “Paul, where’s the other two?”

“John’s having a kip, and I think Ringo might be using the toilet, last I saw…”

Ringo walked in seconds later. “What are you doing here Brian?”

Brain gestured towards Ms. Hardy who was having a conversation with George. “This is Ms. Françoise Hardy, Ringo.”

“Ahh.” Ringo said, walking nonchalantly over to the young woman. “I’m Ringo, the drummer. Nice to meet you, madame.”

The French woman gave an elegant smile, which seemed to have effect on half the people in the room. “Yes, I know you. Pleased to meet you Mr. Starr.” Her voice was as soft and elegant as you’d expect it to be, with a thick French accent to compliment it.

Brian then looked over to Paul, asking him in quiet. “Can you go get John for me, please?”

“Yeah, sure.” Paul replied, leaving to find John’s room. The door was let slightly open, he could hear the snores of John coming from the room. The young man chuckled to himself, and gave a light sigh as he opened to door. John was sprawled on his bed, arms and legs spread wide open. For a few minutes, Paul couldn’t help but watch John in his state of bliss, his chest gradually rising and lowering. He really did look quite beautiful, anyone could admit that. Then something odd happened.

Instead of the sound of snores, he heard John whimper something, he couldn’t quite hear. Paul scooted closer to John’s bed.

“Paul, please,” John said in his sleep. Rapidly Paul’s heart began to beat in an unhealthy pace. John was dreaming about Paul! A small smile crept on his lips, he was now on his knees looking at the bed next to him.

 “Paul, just… come closer,” John said once again.

Heat came onto Paul’s cheeks, his face probably some awkward shade of scarlet. What was John dreaming about?!

“Oh, Paul, please. Right there.”  John’s face was directly in front of Paul’s now. His brain was not even able to comprehend what was going on. What in the hell _was_ going on?

“Oh god, touch me righ-“

“JOHN! JOHN! WAKE UP!” Paul panicked.

John’s eyes flashed open, his own face flushed as he saw Paul’s face… right after a dream like that.

“Er-Hi,” was all John could muster.

“Brian wants us downstairs, he wants you to meet some French bird.”

For some reason (yeah some reason) Paul’s eyes looked down at John’s crotch. He was surprised to see it was… hard, all after having a dream about Paul. Oh God, he had to leave right now.

“Okay, Macca. Tell him to give me a few minutes alright?” Oh.

“Uh… Okay.” Paul said, before leaving the room as quickly as possible. Talk about awkward encounters. After closing the door, he pressed his ears against it because, well he couldn’t help himself. He heard John’s voice huff, puff, and moan. He knew exactly what he was doing, and Paul knew if he listened any longer, he’d have that problem himself. To avoid any… unwanted guests in his pants, he left back to where the rest of their group had been.

He was met with the ambiance of conversation and walked over quickly to Brian, who was also conversing with the other people in the room.

“John will be out in a few minutes.”

Brian wondered why Paul looked so flushed, but ignored it and simply said, “Alright.”

Paul managed to immerse himself into the conversation George and Ringo were having with Françoise. Soon after some meaningless chat, John arrived in the room, his hair roughly tossed in all directions. Paul couldn’t quite meet John’s eye.

Brian was a bit disappointed that John didn’t use those few minutes to look a bit presentable, god knew what he used them for.

“Well ‘ello there, miss,” John said walking over to Françoise in a flirtatious fashion, “I’m John, John Lennon. And you are?” Everytime John used that tone, whoever it was, Paul’s knees would go weak. Just the idea of a flirtatious smooth talking Lennon always made him turn to mush.

Ms. Hardy laughed at John’s approach and held out her hand to shake. John took it with a fresh smile.

“My name is Françoise Hardy. I know who you are. It is pleasure to meet you.” She said, reciprocating the tone and laughing along with John. “Perhaps you and your friends would like to come to the Castel nightclub with me? Have you ever been?”

Brian answered for the rest of them with a professional smile. “We’ve never been there before. I’m sure they’d love to come along. Right boys?”

Different answers of “Yeah”, “sure” and “Okay” filled the room, all of the Beatles anxious to get some time to enjoy nightlife.

“Alright, you boys get into something presentable,” Brian gave a quick glance at John, “And we’ll meet back here in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir!” John jokingly said, saluting to Brian. Paul giggled, leaning against the wall.

Maybe Paul would get to relax tonight.

~~*~~

The Castel nightclub was bustling with life. The drinks were exquisite, the walls were covered in an elegant brown and the floors in an eye-opening red. The seats were comfortable, the women were gorgeous, though Paul didn’t really care too much for that part. Music echoed through the lively walls of the club. Everyone in the club had a smile on their face except for Paul. He sat alone at the table his group claimed only to stare at his drink. Really, there wasn’t much he could do. None of the women were interesting to him, the music didn’t appeal much to him, what was he supposed to do? He leaned on his hand, propped up by his elbow taking another sip of his drink. At least the alcohol was pretty good.

John was across the room dancing with some drunk woman, probably his take out for tonight. He looked like he was having the time of his life, but then John excused himself. Paul sat up straighter when John began making his way over to Paul’s table. He looked a little concerned, and hey, maybe he should be.

. John sat across from him, and looked into Paul’s eyes for a few seconds before speaking. There was too much commotion, it just sounded like gibberish.

“What?” Paul said.

John spoke louder, but it was to no avail.

“What??!!” Paul yelled again.

John groaned grabbing Paul’s wrist, forcing him to stand up. He dragged the younger man across the dance floor, leading him eventually to the lou. Once they were in a more quiet place, Paul questioned John’s motives.

“John, what the hell do you want?”

The comment made John more frustrated than he already was. “I’m concerned about you, you twat! All you do nowadays is mope around! Are you sick or something?! What’s wrong with you??”

Paul didn’t look John straight in the eye. “Nothing.”

“Fucking liar.” John started to walk closer, eventually backing Paul into the edge of the sink.

“John, what-”

“You know Paul, I remember when we could laugh real easy. Or when I could talk to you without you acting all fucking strange. I miss it Paul, I want it back. What did I do? Tell me, please.”

John’s eyes started to water, but only a little. He grabbed Paul’s upper arm tightly, grasping for dear life. He searched for Paul’s eyes, and once he met them, Paul once again felt the fast pace of his heart similar to the pace that one Paris night. He looked at John’s wet eyes, his pupils large again, still wondering what it meant.

Paul painfully pushed John off him gently, and turned around leaning over the sink. He rubbed his hands over his eyes in distress, and John backed away taking light steps.

“John…” Paul began carefully, “If I told you, I know you’d hate me. You’d think I was disgusting.”

It physically hurt for John to hear those words. What made Paul feel so worthless and undeserving?

Paul moved further from where John was standing and began to pace furiously. Just in case of unwanted visitors, he walked past the stalls back to the entrance of the bathroom, and locked the door.

“Paul, what…”

Paul leaned against the door for a few seconds before walking to John. The younger man clasped on to John’s blazer, at this point only looking at the floor. He felt John’s breath become harsher and ragged. Paul’s hands began to back John against the white marble walls. The only sound they could hear was the baseline of the music outside and the sound of their breath. Paul looked up from the floor, and met John’s eyes again. He saw the other man’s thin lips were slightly parted, and he let his eyes linger on the softness of those lips. He wondered what it would be like, maybe it would be as soft as a feather. Would it taste like alcohol? Maybe John would feel a bit more rough. Paul looked up and realized John was looking at his parted lips as well.

Was John thinking the same thoughts? Was he just as desperate? Paul’s tongue slowly caressed his own plump lips, he began to lean in closer, his hands resting on John’s chest. Slowly his hands began to graze their way onto John’s neck. His skin was like a silky fabric. John’s eyes looked back at Paul’s own. Both heads began to lean forward, their heads tilted. Paul could feel John’s lips as they began to graze his own. Soon their lips were fully connected, at first stationary then moving in a slow rhythm. Paul leaned more into the kiss as he pushed John closer against the wall. He pressed himself against John’s figure. All of Paul’s raw passion, all his love he poured into John. Their lips connected perfectly together and their heads moving in all different directions. John’s tongue poked his way into Paul’s mouth, exploring all the nooks and crannies. Their tongues intertwined in a beautiful dance, both parties moaning and forgetting to breathe.

Eventually the tangle of lips came to a halt and both men separated when they heard a knock on the sealed door.

“Quelqu'un est-il là-dedans?”

Both men stared at eachother, letting one another panic for just a moment before the younger one began to depart from the older man’s arms. Slowly  walking away from his older counterpart, not taking his eyes off him, Paul said something in desperation.

“Uh… Oui, une seconde!”

After the snog they just had in the damn restroom, John still stood dumbfounded when Paul unlocked the door to let the man walk in. A few seconds later, the young man standing at the door, signaled for John to get the hell out of the bathroom. This odd interaction was noticed by the man who only walked in to wash his hands.

“Right.” John mumbled, quickly pacing out of the toilet, walking back into the club’s atmosphere. Noise levels made John quite irritated, as he was still so very confused from the encounter he just had. Now it was just him and Paul walking away from the bleedin’ bathroom, not exactly sure where their destination was suppose to be.

Oh fuck.

Through the confusion and unsettling struts of the two bandmates, none of them could stop thinking about what had just happened in the restroom. Yet, John decided to disregard that thought, going up to several people and beginning conversations. Paul hovered behind like a helicopter, dazed and confused, but still giving some input while conversing with other people. None of them knew how they finally did make it through the night and early hours of the morning. Before either of them knew, they had woken up in their own beds at the hotel.

Paul sat up from the pile of bed sheets, and for a while he marveled how at this moment he was at peace.

And for three seconds, Paul sat in silent bliss. Now he began to remember the events prior to this moment, recalling the sensation of John’s lips against his, his body pressed up against him, everything hot and needy. He lifted his hands to his eyes, rubbing them out of frustration. Last night was something he thoroughly enjoyed, but only in the moment. Sure, he was ecstatic that John felt the same for Paul, or at least that they got to experience something new, but this had dire consequences. What if they did continue this love affair, if you could call it that? They’d have to live in shame and secrecy for the rest of their lives. There would be no coming out, there would be no justice for either of them. He knew from the moment in his teen years that he realized he didn’t fancy women, that he was some sick pervert that this was the life he was destined to lead. John was a straight as an arrow; he didn’t want to put someone who was normal in this situation just to satisfy his own needs. No, no this was hopeless. If the world knew that one of the most famous men alive were a homosexual, he didn’t know what would happen. Really, he didn’t want to know.

Or did he?

“Paul, are you in there?” he heard John speak as he knocked on the door.

John was sort of the last person he wanted to see right now. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to room with John instead of Ringo or George.

“Ya-yeah, I’ll be out in just a second!”

Good, at least today was a free day. They’d all have time to wander around in Paris for a day, sightseeing and whatever normal people do.

The person other side of the door spoke up again. “Right. We have an overall free day, but we have an interview later at night with some bloody radio or somethin’.”

Oh shit, Paul had forgotten about that interview with that Chris Denning git or whatever. What a drag. They should make the most of their day while they still have it.

“R-right, all be out in a second.”

“Also, don’t be late for breakfast, Macca.”

Once he sensed John had left, he proceeded to take a shit, because he really needed to take a shit. Though the shit was quite lovely, he took that moment to wonder why John sounded so calm and collective. Paul didn’t think he’d be able to be so normal around John especially after the events of last night, so why is John so seemingly fine?

He did his daily routine, washing up, dressing in something nice. Hopefully the grey suit he wore would be sufficient for a somewhat easy day. Well, easy as a day in the Beatles’ life could be.

_Oh well, good enough._

His mood was becoming more despondent, it wasn’t unexpected, he usually felt that way these days. Pining over your best mate for years didn’t make him very jolly. He hoped maybe today they could see some nice things to take his mind off the ever present storm of emotions in his mind.

Opening the door, he met John reading some newspaper in their hotel seat, his full concentration on his reading material.

“S-so, you said something about Breakfeast?”

Black was slimming on John’s body, Paul knew John had some insecurities about his weight, but to him, John’s body was elegant. Perfect even. He thought the dark suit he wore with the dark blue shirt under his blazer was fitting. Then John spoke, looking up from his papers. The smile John flashed killed Paul. Such a small interaction made Paul act pathetic.

“Yeah, Bri wanted us to go to some café around here. He said he’d come to get us in around 10 minutes.”

How to kill ten minutes.

“Alright.”

 Paul still stood at the doorway, biting his lip unknowing what to do. Maybe he should sit down, do something that won’t make him look like an idiot. How was John so calm not to even mention anything from last night? How come he just continued looking at the bleedin newspaper, knowing that he fondled another man yesterday?

Fuck it, he just walked over to the chair across from John, sitting in silence, but his nervous actions spoke louder than words. John looked up from his paper, Paul wondered where in the hell he got a paper that wasn’t in French.

“You okay, mate? You seem a bit off.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.” John closed the paper fully, laying it on his lap and crossing his legs. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Okay, no. I’m not alright. But how the fuck are you so calm?! I would think that you would at least mention something!”  Paul put his hands on the armrests of the chairs, grasping it with a tight and furious grip.

“What are you talking about?”

“Last night you daft sod,” Paul lowered his voice, “In the lou.”

At first John was fully leant forward, but relaxed back into his chair at Paul’s words. He raised a large scruffy eyebrow.

“What are you on about?”

Was John trying to forget it? Did he not care? Did he truly not remember?

“You don’t remember?”

“Fuck mate, I was so damn pissed last night I didn’t know right from left.” John laughed casually, resting his head on his hand. Suddenly, there was a look of concern on the man’s face. “Shit, did I do something bad?”

Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing John didn’t remember. In fact, it was a relief. I mean, how could John ever reciprocate what Paul felt! He was mad! Hahahaha!

“Nevermind, actually,” Paul laughed nervously, “I think, I was just as pissed as you were.” For a moment, he believed he was, but not even his mind could make up how beautiful and soft John’s lips were.

John chuckled, and went back to reading his newspaper, speaking as he did. “Well, Brian’s comin’ in real soon. Should be any second before-”

Paul was relieved when he heard the knock on the door.

~~*~~

The rest of their day in Paris was truly uneventful, for the Beatles. For the most part, they didn’t have much freedom to go around town by themselves, and he should have guessed as much. Still, they had their breakfast (lunch really) on the terrace of one of those classic Paris cafes. They had a walk through  Paris Park, the fresh air was a step up from being in places with large crowds all day. This one photographer who had done photos of them before decided to have a photo session while they were at the park. They sped through the interview, and a day later, they were playing in front of three thousand people, and the next day they were traveling to Milan.

And then the tour went by in a blur.

December came; their popularity grew, as if that was possible. The day after Christmas, Paul was riding his Moped cycle with his friend, Tara. For a while, he started to look at the moon, because, well, it reminded him of when he and John sat at the fountain. He turned tolooked back at the pavement again, realizing what he was about to do.

_Ah, too bad - I'm going to smack that pavement with my face!_

 For a moment he thought he would die, the accident wasn’t very serious, but he really truly thought he would die for a moment, as if it were some inevitable thing that would come any second. It was almost as if he expected death so much, he wanted it to happen. The thought terrified him. But when he stood up, he and his friend Tara walked to his cousin Bett’s house.

All he could muster was, “Don't worry, Bett, but I've had a bit of an accident.”

At first she laughed, but Paul looked like he’d just been in a boxing ring with Mike Tyson.

“Holy!” Bett then called a doctor friend she had, and when he came around the corner he stitched Paul up. No anesthetic or anything. They just sat in Bett’s house stitching up Paul’s lip. The thread accidently came out of said lip, but Paul just sat there and took it. It was like he was emotionally numb, and everything else was static.

“Oh, the thread's just come out - I'll have to do it again!” the doctor did it over again, but Paul didn’t care.

He realized that if he had such a strong desire to let go, maybe he had nothing to lose


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, things start happening.

Seven months passed since the motorcycle incident in December, and every month felt like another load Paul had to carry. They had been working on the new “Revolver” album since April, which meant restless days in the studio. More time was spent in the studio before, considering the amount of editing the new songs required. Being stuck in a small room with John all day was as unsettling as it was uplifting. It honestly all feels like madness.

Back in March, their popularity had a little bit of a halt, thanks to good ol’ Johnny. He was talking to a friend, who happened to be a reporter and Lennon said the Beatles were “more popular than Jesus”. It didn’t fail to get to a lot of religious folks; it was a mistake on John’s part. They were able to move on from that, and Paul was able to comfort John when he felt like shit.

This man he’d come to know as Alan Smith has been trying to interview him for some while, they’ve talked in a car, up the stairs, and a bloody taxi. Eventually they did a better quality interview when The Beatles were doing an appearance at the BBC-TV show “Top of the Pops”. There were girls everywhere, almost no place was quiet enough for them to get through just a few questions. He and Alan had found that the only truly quiet place was the lavatory in the TV Centre. Both of them settled in the small restroom, and were brought a cup of tea before Alan proceeded with the questions. Paul sat on the bathtub, while Allan sat on the toilet, which made everything even more uncomfortable.

 

Allan’s interview began talking about the Moped accident that Paul had had that December, and a bit about the songs they were working on for Revolver. Really, it was a pretty generic interview, asking a few personal questions about songs or the home he had purchased, nothing headline making.

 

Allan began to form a question,“Paul, onto something more personal.”

The young Beatle took a sip of his tea, wondering where the interviewer was going with this.

“Alright.”

“Is there anyone special at the moment we should know about?” The interviewer sounded genuinely lighthearted about this, but for Paul, it made him tense.

“No, not at the moment,” Paul’s voice felt rougher with every word.

“You did have a minor thing with Jane Asher, what happened to her?”

Paul put down the tea on the floor, took out a cigarette and forced a smile.

“Ah, we weren’t right for eachother.”

“Do you think you’ll ever find the right girl?”

Paul tensed even more, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He didn’t care anymore, he couldn’t lie anymore. Maybe it was a better thing to tell the truth.

“N-no.”

“Why is that?” The interviewer asked inquisitively.

“Alan, I haven’t been entirely honest with everyone.”

“How so?”

Paul took another sip of his tea. The drink was getting a bit cold now.

“Listen, Alan. There have been men who have been beaten, thrown in prison, and killed, and they were no different than I am. And frankly, I don’t see how it’s fair they live a life of persecution while I sit here, one of the biggest stars in the business.”

Okay, starting with subtlety, doing well so far.

“What are you trying to say Paul?”

Paul swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

“What I’m trying to say, _Alan_ , is that I can’t find the perfect woman because… I am a homosexual.” Okay enough with the damn subtlety

Paul took another long drag of his cigarette as the interviewers mouth stood agape. The tension in the compact room could be physically felt.

“Uh, what?”

“Yeah, I’m a homosexual. I’m not saying this for publicity, to be an activist or whatever. I just want everyone to know that men like me are out there, and maybe we should stop ignoring that fact. They’re hunting us like deer, Alan.”

Still, as clear as Paul was, the Alan was shocked. It was hard to speak with one of the largest celebrities telling him… _this_! The interviewer cleared his throat.

“You know, Paul, you may be prosecuted for these words?”

“You asked me a question, Alan. I’m just being honest.” Paul tried his best not to look at the interviewers bulging eyes.

The reporter sat there in shock, watching as Paul took another drag of his cigarettes. The “cute Beatle”, Paul McCartney, was a fucking queer!

“Right… don’t you think that you may influence our youth to perform perverse sexual acts to follow in your footsteps?”

Fuck, that pissed Paul off. He fucking regretted what he said, he knew people weren’t ready for this shit.

“Please, get out.”

_No, Paul, don’t go overboard. You should’ve expected this._

“What?”

“Get the hell out of the lavatory! Piss off! I just gave you the biggest story you’ll ever get, now bugger off, prick!”

The interviewer looked somewhat insulted. Instead of retorting to Paul’s harsh words, he simply stood up and left. Once the reporter had exited the lou, Paul dropped his cigarette. It was serious this time; this would be out for all the world to see.

Realization struck Paul, taking his head into his hands. He began to sob, his palms getting damp from his tears.

“Fuck!” he screamed as he kicked the side of the toilet. He stood, his body feeling heavy, and stumbled to the wall, running into the tea on the floor. That fucking tea spilled all over the place. The fucking tea!

_You’ve fucking done it, McCartney, you’re screwed it all up!_

Angrily leaning against the wall, he kicked the side and in the process slightly injured his foot.

“Oh fuck, everything!” he said, wincing in pain as he roughly grabbed his foot.

He tried to collect himself, but he couldn’t. This was bad, this was so bad, he’s gone and messed up every opportunity his band had. And he was so excited about the new album, too! It was going to flop because Paul couldn’t shut his big fucking mouth!

His sobs became louder, squatting onto the floor. He curled himself into some sort of failure of a ball, his whole body tense and anxious.

God, was he afraid.

“Paul are you in there? The studio’s been lookin’ for you.”

_Oh god, John. Not now, of all the moments you could’ve come, it had to be now?_

Paul tried desperately to collect himself, standing up sniffling a few times. He knew his eyes were extremely red, and his cheeks tear stained. He couldn’t let John see him, it would be unhealthy. He’d break again.

“Y-yeah, John I’m in here,” Paul let out in a pathetic whimper.

“We’re on for the show in a few minutes… are you okay? You sound like you’ve been… crying.”

“Mmm, no. No I’m fine, I just-”

He covered his mouth with his hands, he knew he was about to cry again.

“I’m  okay,” at this point his voice was a muffled whisper.

“Paul, please open up. You’re worrying me.”

“no..no, I’m-”

The doorknob began to turn furiously, Paul’s heart began to race, running his hands through his hair.

“Open up, or I’m kicking the door down.”

The doorknob kept turning, Paul felt his legs giving up on him. Why was he breaking like this? Telling the truth is what you’re suppose to do!

The door flew open, John standing at the doorway looking at the scene before him.

“Paul…”

Paul put two hands on his mouth, trying to keep his cries in. John went over to the man on the floor, sitting on his side. The older man put his arms around Paul, only making Paul feel worse and better at the same time.

“It’s all gone to hell, Johnny,” Paul whimpered, his voice husky and cracking.

“Shhh, Macca.” John said, stroking his hair as Paul clung to his side. “I’m sure it’ll be alright.” John probably had no idea what was actually happening.

The crying man’s whimpers began to settle, and eventually the room became silent and tense. John still held Paul in his arms, and Paul still clung to him. For a few seconds, he  could make out John’s rapid heartbeat until John stretched Paul away.

“Well, let’s get you cleaned up,” John paused to look at Paul for a few seconds. He was always there with a smile. “They’re probably wondering where we are.”

“Thanks, mate,” Paul said softly, whipping his eyes from the remaining tears.

It was all silence, the only sound was the sink running as Paul splashed his face. Okay, for now he had to be calm. No more of that crying shit.

Paul finished up, his face looking neutral and the signs of tears no longer visible. The two men walked out of the restroom in silence. No one dared to say a word.

 

~~*~~

 

Days passed, the article had not yet been published, and John had not mentioned the incident in the bathroom since it happened. Paul thought the article would have been blasted all over the place by now, and frankly, the wait was killing him. The past days, they’ve been recording and mixing the songs on “Revolver”, they’ve been pretty uneventful days. Still, it’s helped Paul keep his mind off everything that’s been going on. Every now and then, Paul would occasionally catch John’s eye, resulting in a smile from his partner. He was trying to avoid him, it was embarrassing to be around him. The moments he did spent with him, no one dared to address the elephant in the room, and Paul still remained tense.

It was June 24th today, they were going to start a brief tour in three countries, the first being Germany. There were two shows tonight, but they’ve been absent from the stage for a long time, so the group was slightly nervous about this performance.

The first and second performances were overall okay, despite the fact the George had introduced “Yesterday” from “Beatles for Sale”. Everyone else laughed it off, no biggie. They were about to do “I’m Down” when Paul realized he’d forgotten the lyrics to the first bit. They were on stage in front of a thousand people, and Paul had forgotten the damn lyrics.

“Shit, George,” he not so subtlety said to the guitar player.

“What?”

John walked over to see what they were chatting about.

“I forgot the first bit to ‘I’m Down’”

John interjected, laughing a bit.

“You telling lies thinking I can't see…” John said, waving his finger in the air.

“Okay, got it.” Oh no, that smile of John’s got him all distracted.

 “Man buys ring woman throws it away!”

He started singing, John had just told him the line, and he sang it wrong five seconds later. God, this was getting ridiculous.

He managed to get all the verses wrong, the whole song became messed up because Paul had to go around thinking of John. It always managed to get him disrupted, even after he was doing so well. Finally, the tune ended with cheering, and maybe a lot of people didn’t notice. And with that song they finished off the final concert, promptly walking off stage. Backstage, Brian was waiting near the stage exit. Once he realized the concert was over, he strutted over to Paul, looking anxious with every step.

“Paul, when we arrive at the hotel, we can discuss what has happened.”

“Uhh,” Paul didn’t like where this was going.

Everything was fine and dandy, until they came out of the Circus Kroner.

Initially they never expected the hundreds of reporters waiting for them outside. Seeing this, guards flocked over to them, realizing they needed more protection.

Hoards of reporters crowded around them, all screaming at the same time. Individual questions were indistinguishable from the ambiance of the crowd.

“Mr. McCartney are the allegations true?” he was able to  hear one woman say in the crowd.

“What?” He knew very well what, maybe it was better to play dumb for a bit.

One middle aged reporter spoke, “Mr. McCartney, what is your official statement?”

“On what?”

They entered the car before Paul could get an answer to what everyone was questioning them about.

“What the hell was that about,” Ringo questioned once they were in privacy.

“Hell if I know,” Paul blatantly lied.

They arrived at their hotel with no reporters in sight.

Once they were checked in, the Beatles made their way to their designated suites via a lift.

“I’ll bunk with you tonight, George,” Paul whispered in the lift.

“Sure, mate.”

After the lift doors opened, Brian escorted everyone to their designated suites, everyone giving their rushed “goodbyes” and “goodnights”.

George and Paul left to enter their own suite, both noticing Brian following behind. Upon entering the room, Brian closed the door behind them.

“Paul, tomorrow we can speak to Derek on what we should say to the press about this.”

“Alright, can we clarify what’s going on?”

“It’s all over the news, Paul. Haven’t you seen the article? ‘Paul Comes Out!’”

The young bassist ran a hand in his hair, the word was out. Now what?

“Okay… so what do we do now?”

“Well, you might get prosecuted, though they don’t have enough evidence to prove you did anything illegal, yet.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe we can talk about this in more depth tomorrow, Paul.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

It was an awkward conversation, and no one seemed noticed that George was also there in the room.

“What’s all this about?” George asked innocently from the bed.

Brian walked towards the door, his face looked tired. “I’ll be off now, Paul.”

Paul acknowledged Brian with a slight nod, the door closing with a final click. Finally, he turned to George, sitting at the edge of the bed, his eyes still questioning.

“George… it’s got out to the press that…” Paul didn’t quite know how to put it, “… that, I’m a queer.”

His youngest friend sat on the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable. George shifted a bit before commenting.

“Well, you aren’t right?” Paul hoped George wasn’t hoping for a ‘yes’.

“No, I-I am.”

His old friend, looked down, then back up at Paul’s face and smiled.

“Well, it’s alright with me, at least.” Paul let out a relieved sigh. Huge confrontations didn’t sound very pleasant at the moment.It was relieving to know that at least his old friend accepted him. Maybe it wouldn’t be all bad, George reassured him and helped alleviate the stress this was causing.

“Thanks, Georgie.”

So they went to sleep.

~~*~~

The next morning Brian received a call from the sports arena they were meant to play at. Apparently the venue was canceled because of “recent events”. They were probably afraid of a mob or something, and no one could blame them. There was a small chance of rescheduling, but given the big news story of the day, it would be unlikely.

The four Beatles, Brian, and Derek, their publicist, met in Paul and George’s hotel room to discuss what the procedure was from here. They planned on releasing their official statement this afternoon.

The six of them sat a round table.

“Before we continue,” Brian began, breaking the silence, “Paul, I have to ask you personally if what the man is saying is true.”

Paul’s eyes searched the room. No one looked like they were angry or judging. It was all neutral. John’s face, however, looked unreadable. It was some odd expression he’d never seen. Though John’s head remained bowed, that odd expression was still visible.

Their publicist spoke for the first time,“Paul, I do think you should deny the allegations. I don’t think it’s the best idea to-”

“No, Derek, I want to do this.”

Brain interjected, “Paul, I think it would be in the best interest for the future of the group to simply deny what this reporter is saying.”

“No,” Paul crossed his arms, leaning back, “I just… I need to do this.”

“Paul,” Ringo began, treading lightly, “we do love you, and whatever you do in your time is fine, but… I don’t think that everyone else will think the same.”

“No,” John finally added a comment in, “I think you should tell the truth Paul. Whatever it is. If you want the world to know who you are, then fuck it, right?”

Paul looked at John, meeting his eyes. They looked sympathetic… no. They looked empathetic. Why was John suddenly his biggest advocate?

Brian spoke again, “There have been several people asking for interviews, Paul. If you do want to go public with this, we can schedule an interview.”

Paul gave a slight nod in acknowledgement, “Yes, that’s what I want.”

George finally spoke as well, “Paul, I think it’s good you want to speak out.”

“Yeah, we’ll still back you up, mate. No matter what. Like John said, fuck everyone else,” Ringo smiled as he said these words.

Paul didn’t expect the support of the people in his life, he nearly thought he would be thrown out of the band.

“For now we’ll remain ambiguous,” Derek once again spoke up, “then we’ll see what happens with the interview.”

“Thanks everyone. I’m sorry if it messes up our band, but I can’t live like this anymore,” Paul spoke with a sadness in his tone.

Paul one again met John’s eye, he had felt the other man’s stare for a while now. Slowly, he saw the corner of John’s mouth twitch, as if it were attempting to give off a smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some things that are nifty:  
> Paul actually did mess up “I’m Down” in the Germany performance, and I tried to recreate the conversation on stage that was in the film.
> 
> The original interview took place in June 16th 1966 where Paul talks about his motorcycle accident and is labeled “Paul Speaks Out!” I have almost completely altered this interview as a plot device. If that’s the right word.
> 
> Alan Smith and Paul McCartney really did interview in a lavatory
> 
> Also, thanks for withstanding my writing and my, overuse, of, commas.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There isn’t gonna be any specific sexual actions in this story, it’s more like an R. So don’t expect anything wild.

 

The following tour dates had been cancelled, but it wasn’t heart breaking. They had been planning to stop touring after the tour concluded; it was only for the best.

It was an easy morning; Paul sat at his home in Cavendish Avenue watching something on the telly. Martha was resting on the carpet floor, probably thinking about whatever dogs think about. Tomorrow ITV would be interviewing him to discuss everything that’s been unfolding in the last few days.

Newspapers had just picked up on the story; people were starting to figure out what was going on. Speculation sprung up that the reporter was lying, so the whole situation was in its middle ground. People were still blowing this out of proportion, despite their convictions.

Pulling Paul out of his thoughts, the doorbell buzzer went off. Who could be visiting him now? Quite often he’d have some random fan buzzing in. Dead weight lifted from the couch, lazily making its way to the intercom. Clicking the button he spoke to whoever was on the other line.

 “Yes, who is it?”

“Open up the gate, Macca!”

Oh, it was just John. Well… it wasn’t _just_ John.

He sighed, “Okay, hold on.”

Clicking on the button on the intercom to open the gates, John’s car began to enter through the driveway. The car parked into the lot, John exiting the vehicle. Paul stood there, watching as John walked to the door. That strut of John’s was enough to get him.

Before John could knock, Paul opened the door, trying to smile at John’s presence. Stepping aside, he let John walk in to Cavendish. His visitor made his way over to the couch, simply plopping onto the furniture, acknowledging Martha sitting on the floor.

“Hey Martha.” The dog’s tail began to wag at quicker pace.

The owner of the house walked over and stood next to the couch, staring at John to wait for an explanation.

“So, why are you here, again?”

“Can’t I visit my best mate’s house? Sheesh.”

Paul once again gave out a sigh, moving over and sitting on the couch next to John. He consciously made an effort not to accidently brush the sides of his partner.

His visitor pulled out a cigarette, noise of the television still playing in the background.

“So,” John began, “How’s life?”

“Oh, well, the world probably hates me now… so, that’s good.”

“Oh c’mon, Macca,” John rested his hand on Paul’s shoulder, “Who could hate that pretty face of yours?”

Paul brushed John’s hand off, crossing his arms, then pulling out a fag of his own.

“I’m being serious, John. I’ve probably messed up the entire group.”

John chuckled slightly. “Nah, son. They’ll forget about it in a few months, just like with what I said.”

Paul took another long drag of his cigarette, looking in no particular direction. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, Paul still wondering what the hell John was up to. He realized that the were somehow closer on the couch that they were a few minutes ago.

“You know, Paul,” John began, before putting out the fag in the ashtray, “This is gonna sound off, and it probably is, but I… _do_ remember that night in Paris last year.”

Paul froze. There was nothing he could say to that. As a result, he just sat there, cigarette in hand. Both men sat in silence, smoke filling the room. Now he was plagued with more worries. What was John trying to say?

John began to speak again, “It’s just that… You know how I hate rejection. I thought maybe if I lied about it, I wouldn’t have to face you saying it was a mistake.”

What… what was he trying to say?! Paul couldn’t even look at John, he just sat there in silence, in shock.

“Because honestly,” John sighed, “I fucking liked it, and ever since then, I couldn’t even stand to be around you. And since you said that stuff to the reporter, I thought that maybe you liked it, too.”

The tension in the air became thicker, the only constant being the damn television playing in the background.

“So,” John sounded breathless, “I should probably leave now.”

Watching John get up, he just sat there like a fucking idiot.

 All he could do was watch the TV, that damn stupid TV. Before he knew it, John was at the door ready to leave. He had to do something; he couldn’t just let him go.

The young man got up before John could go outside; grabbing John’s arm in desperation, he hoped it wasn’t too late for some sort of conversation. And even if it wasn’t, no words came out of Paul’s mouth. All he could muster was, “Wait.”

And then John’s eyes did that thing where the pupils got really big, and Paul just stood there like an idiot.

Both men’s breathing became hitched, the tension filling up the spaces between them.

Slowly, Paul leant forward and grazed  John’s lips. It was a soft as a graze, almost unnoticeable. The grasp on John’s arm became loose, until Paul’s hand fell to his side. When Paul pulled away, it was only a matter of seconds before John was gone, leaving for his car. And he just stood there, like an idiot.

In all his desperation and worries, he stood alone in his living room.

Pulling his hair, he cried out, “God fucking damn it!”

Of all the horrible things that could happen to him, why this? Why’d he have to go around liking men, liking _John_??

He wanted normality, at least in his personal life! It’s not like he wanted  the most perfect normal life, because he was a Beatles, and a normal life was far beyond his reach, but this? This disease? This illness?

There was nothing to do, he was hopeless. So he sat again, he sat on his couch smoking another fag. And if it was any reassurance to him, at least he had Martha.

~~*~~

ITV crew members arrived at 2:30, setting up the interview in Paul’s backyard. They were just about ready to record, Paul taking a seat in one of the outdoor chairs he had. The interviewer sat across from him, he was thin and brunette.

The last few days, the whole mess was blown up even farther. Religious people were protesting and boycotting their albums again. Headlines of “McCartney the Homosexual” popped up all over newsstands; people weren’t even given time to react. Overnight, everything came crashing down, people confused. No one knew whether to stand by their favourite star and to dismiss it, or to blame them for being a homosexual pervert! It was mad, the world wasn’t ready to accept this sort of thing, and he was starting to think that maybe he wasn’t either.

“Alright Paul, are you ready?” The reporter tried to sound nice, but Paul could see he was disgusted too.

“Yes, go on.”

“Camera is rolling,” the cameraman said from nearby.

The reporter smiled before beginning, “Paul, can you confirm you’re a homosexual?”

“Yes.” He tried to relax a bit, spinning his chair. Alright, they were just gonna go head first into this.

"Paul, how often have you had these relationships?"

“About four times.”

"And with who?”

Paul smirked a bit, a bit of a funny question, “Well, you know, if I was to say who I was with, you know, I mean... it's illegal and everything... it's silly to say that, you know. So I'd rather not say that.”

The reporter went on, “Don't you believe that this is a matter which you should have kept private?”

“Mmm, but the thing is -- I was asked a _question_ by a newspaper,” Paul paused and bit his lip, “and the decision was whether to tell a lie or tell him the truth. I decided to tell him the truth... but I really didn't want to say anything, you know, because if I had my way I wouldn't have told anyone. I'm not trying to spread the word about this, I just thought… it’s a big thing. But the man from the newspaper is the man from the mass medium. I'll keep my relationships a personal thing if he does too, you know... if he keeps it quiet. But he wanted to spread it so it's his responsibility, you know, for spreading it, not mine.”

“But you're a public figure and you said it in the first place and you must have known it would make the newspaper.”

“Yeah, but to say it is only to tell the truth. I'm telling the truth, you know. I don't know what everyone's so angry about. I didn’t want to lie to everyone.”

“Do you think that you have now encouraged your fans to partake in these activities?”

“I don't think it'll make any difference. I don't think my fans are going to do these things just because I did, you know. It’s not something you just wake up and want to do. But the thing is -- _that's not the point_ anyway. I was asked about my relationships. I didn’t think it was fair for me to lie, or to hide in shame just like everyone else.  And from then on, the whole bit about how far it's gonna go and how many people it's going to encourage is up to the newspapers, and up to you on television. I mean, you're spreading this now, at this moment. This is going into all the homes in Britain. And I'd rather it didn't. But you're asking me the question -- You want me to be honest -- I'll be honest.”

 “But as a public figure, surely you've got the responsibility to-”

“No, it's you who've got the responsibility. You've got the responsibility not to spread this NOW. You know, I'm quite prepared to keep it as a very personal thing if you will too. This fact is just a part of me, but that shouldn’t matter. I didn’t want to lie, and I didn’t want to keep shut about it the rest of my life, but now that it’s out, why should it matter? Why should it matter what I do, I’m a musician and that’s all.”

The backyard was still, both men silent, the news crew silent, as well. There was tension between the reporter and the musician, Paul was becoming slightly angry.

“Paul, I think that’s enough questions. Thank you.”

The musician nodded, the man standing up, his crew leaving. He wondered how this would be plastered on the news. It’s pretty funny watching the media twisting things up. Maybe, “Paul McCartney the Pervert Lashes Out on Reporter!”

It seems like the sort of thing they’d do.

~~*~~

As he expected, the following evening on the news, the story was all over the place. Except, it wasn’t all negative. Some man was talking on the news about the subject, asking random people in London what they thought. Maybe London wasn’t as conservative as he thought it to be.

“Excuse me young lady, what do you think of the Paul McCartney scandal?”

“Oh, well I don’t think it’s scandalous at all, Paul’s still great as always!” the young woman laughed, and they cut to the next person.

“Sir, what do you think of the recent Paul McCartney development?”

The man looked in his 30’s, he seemed to think for a few seconds before answering.

“You know, I don’t exactly approve of it, but it’s his choice with what he does. He still makes great music, in my opinion.”

And it kept going and going. Some people were negative about it, calling him a poofter, but overall, he was surprised. Most people thought it was… _okay_. They didn’t hate him, sure it wasn’t ideal, but they didn’t hate him.

The next shot was a group of girls.

“What do you ladies think about the recent news on Mr. McCartney.”

“Oh, I’m sad that I don’t have a chance with him, but a girl can dream!” this girl spoke, gum in her mouth.

The other girl next to her spoke as well, “Well… I really don’t care what Paul does, I’ll still buy his records. I mean, who cares, right? I’d follow him whatever he does!” She laughed.

“Yeah, Paul’s still hot!” one girl yelled from the back of the group.

All of them laughed simultaneously before the news cut over to the anchorman.

“Well folks, it seems as public opinion on these sorts of men is slightly shifting… We’ll see you next time. I’m Michael Aspel, with BBC News, wishing you a good night.”

He turned off the television. He started laughing, he was just… laughing. He didn’t know why he was laughing, but… this was great! Most people thought he was just fine! God, what a relief! The buzzer sounded again, and he just kept his jolly old self laughing all the way to the door.

“Who,” Paul let out the last laugh, “W-Who is this?”

“It’s your old estranged wife.”

The laughing came to a halt; it was John. He didn’t like how things were left; he would start to get anxious again.

“I-I’ll open up the gate.”

He opened up, John walking through the gate, no car or anything. How the hell did he manage getting here without a car, or without being recognized?

Paul opened the door, waiting as John approached the front steps.

When finally they were right in front of each other, Paul had to break the tension.

“How’d you get here without a car?”

“I walked.”

John closed the door behind him, putting his hands onto Paul’s neck, and kissing him.

Holy shit. Paul’s heart was beating too fast, god this was unhealthy.

John pulled his mouth away from Paul’s after the brief contact, his forehead still on Paul’s. The younger man took his hands, placing it around John’s waist, grasping for dear life.

“What’d you do that for?”

John smiled, “Dunno. I wanted to I guess.”

Paul laughed sweetly, he began to breathe in John’s air. The scent and taste made Paul melt under John’s touch.

“Well… do it again.”

John pressed his lips harshly against Pauls, each mans mouth in a battle for dominance. They felt like equals, even if Paul was internally crying. Moans came from each man’s mouth, and the sound of the smacking of lips filled the air.

The older man’s force pushed them against the couch, Paul finally letting the force push him down. John began to unbutton his partners buttons, the odd yellow mustard blazer removed quickly before that.

Soon, they were both shirtless, a pile forming on the ground next to them. John sat atop of Paul, looking at his bare chest.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

John pressed his body against Paul, bare skin against bare skin, both men feeling each other’s fast hearts.

“Paul, I don’t know if I love you or anythin’, but… I’ve never been this desperate for anyone before.”

“John… I forgot _how long_ I’ve been this desperate.”

The man on top sat up, looking into Paul’s eyes. They both swam in each other’s irises, connecting before John leant down to kiss Paul again.

This kiss was less of an act of desperation and more of a confession. Both men poured their souls into each other, their beings intertwining in the small act of passion. It was raw, it was real. It wasn’t just another of Paul’s fantasies or sappy love story. It was just them, together.

John pulled away first, leaving Paul’s lips open waiting for more.

“Should we take this to the bedroom?” John said, smiling sweetly atop of the other man.

“We shall.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that interview was suppose to be like the LSD interview. Paul said “y’know” literally 20 times.
> 
> I don’t know how English news works, so I just googled a vintage news anchor from the BBC.
> 
> Once again I, can’t, control, all, these, commas.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunlight entered through a window in the bedroom; Paul’s eyes opened, taking in the fresh light entering his eyes. Someone was holding him, but it wasn’t _just_ _someone_. He could never be nonchalant about this person; nor calm about this person.

His consciousness slowly settled in, realization striking his brain. It was in that moment, Paul legitimately rested; cherishing the few moments he could rest in peace. The outside world faded away like some vague memory, all his worries melting away into nothing. The other man’s arms tightened around him, to no protest of the man being embraced.

“Good mornin’, luv.”

The other man’s voice rippled through the empty room, somehow making everything feel warmer. Paul shifted, turning so that his back was no longer facing this man.

And for a few moments, Paul’s eyes lingered on his face. Each wrinkle and crevice was examined, each in a perfect place. Such beauty and pleasure could be found just in his face alone. The sparkling brown irises of his counterpart examined Paul as well, both men being taken in by the other.

“John.”

It was always John. _John._

Both of them smiled to each other, their bodies moving closer together. There was no tangle of limbs, there was no desperation. Each body fit perfectly into the other, as if it were designed to be so. As if there were no other places for them to be.

It was all interrupted by a loud bang on the gate outside.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?” John said with agitation.

Paul placed a petite thumb onto his lip as some indication of a thought.

“Don’t know. Also, kind of don’t want to leave.”

John laughed, “I would never want to leave at will either,” John paused, stroking Paul’s hair as he fell silent, “but I also don’t want to get murdered. I’ll go check.”

John slowly creeped out  of bed, finding the pants he had hastily thrown on the floor the previous evening.

As he walked towards the door, he started hearing… yelling? It sounded like a large collective of people yelling. What the hell?

He clicked the intercom button to get a jist of the situation.

“Uh… hello?”

A response came a few seconds later, at first it was just the sound of a crowd.

“Paul McCartney, we’re concerned,” the woman was drowned out of the crowd for a second, “concerned parents of young children! We’re protesting you and your sick mind!”

“Yeah,” some other man’s voice went on, “We want you out of the business!”

John stepped away from the intercom, making his way into the bedroom once more.

“Well… we’ve got visitors.”

~~*~~

The television came on, BBC News playing as John and Paul ate their breakfast.

“We’re here at the home of Paul McCartney, Cavendish Ave. It was a normal day, until protesters arrived on the scene. Several of them are distressed parents protesting the recent news about Mr. McCartney. We go now to the crowd.”

The man walked to some of the protesters holding signs. One sign said ‘Repent Paul McCartney’.

“Why are you here, what is it that you’re protesting?”

The women looking to be the other sign holder’s wife replied. “Well, we believe this life choice Paul McCartney is making is absolutely disgusting. We don’t want are kids idolizing these men. It may seem that the kids are okay with it, but their opinions don’t matter. We’re the adults; we control what’s going to be played around the house. I, for one, am not letting another Beatles record set foot in the house again!”

“Well, a worthy cause,” the news reporter said.

Outside the television box, John and Paul were finishing the meal they had made for themselves, looking at each other with concern.

“Maybe we should turn off the telly for a little while.” John walked over to the TV, shutting it off.

He walked back, collecting the dirty plates on the table to wash them. Silence lingered in the room, until Paul spoke.

“I knew they’d all hate me.”

John was silent as he turned off the water.

“They don’t hate you, luv. It’s just that the assholes are always louder than the good people.”

“No, John. They’re louder because there’s more of them.”

“Paul,” John walked over to Paul’s seat, placing both hands on the side of his head, “fuck them.”

Paul chuckled as John placed small kisses on his face and neck.

“Alright, alright. Sto-”

They were interrupted when they heard the window shatter.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”

John quickly paced to the room with the shattered window, only to find a brick on the floor next to the broken pieces. There was a note on the brick, it read:

_Die queer scum._

John’s body tensed with anger. This was fucking ridiculous.

“What happened?!” Paul yelled from the doorpost, “Holy shit, they threw a brick… is that a note?”

Paul walked over to John, trying to retrieve the note. John crumpled it and threw on the ground.

“God damn it, John! What the hell did it say?!”

Paul became unreasonably furious, not being able to look at John.

“Paul, you expected this stuff to happen.”

“Tell me!”

“It’s not-”

“Please… just say it.”

“Die queer scum.”

Paul looked at the floor, hands at his sides. He did expect this to happen, there were always assholes like this.

“I’ll call the police; maybe they can remove them off my property or something?”

John nodded, sitting at the kitchen table. Paul dialed the number for the station, tapping his foot in desperation.

“Hello. City of London Police.”

“Yes, hello. There’s a disturbance on my property. I’d like to see if I could get anyone over here…”

“Name?”

“Paul McCartney.”

“You mean the queer singer?” The masculine voice became rough.

“Erm… yes?” The other line became silent. “Hello?”

No response came. Paul smashed the phone back in its place, rage taking over him.

“Those fuckers hung up on me!”

John still sat at the kitchen table, his hands tapping anxiously on the wood surface. “It’s unsafe here, luv. Maybe we should go to my house.”

“You mean where your wife and son are?”

John’s face stood blank, as if waiting for something to process.

“Just… It’s safer over there. That’s all that matters right now.”

“So we’re just gonna drive out the front?”

“What? Fancy a walk then?”

Paul groaned before grabbing a coat, pacing outside to John’s car. Loud voices and police whistles could be heard from outside his home, different profanities being heard from around. The police weren’t from the phone call; they were most likely trying to control the crowd.

His partner followed quickly behind, keys in hand. John unlocked the car, but did not enter right away.

“We’ll drive up to the front, you open the gate. Then we’ll proceed to get the hell out of here without running anyone over.”

Paul huffed. “Maybe we should run them over.”

John drove up to the front of the driveway. Quickly, Paul pressed the button on the remote he had to open the gate. Slowly the doors revealed the faces of hundreds of angry protesters. They held signs using rather… insulting terminology. Several of them were religious extremists and others just stood by in silence.

John drove slightly forward, the crowd beginning to mob around the car. Slowly John began to move farther out, being careful not to injure any of the angry mob members. Several people covered the windows, reminding Paul of the fans who did the same thing. Except, these people were the exact opposite of fans.

After a quick struggle, John was able to free himself from the grasp of the crowd. Once fully outside, Paul closed the gates of the house, trying to give himself false hope that no one trespassed.

Now ready to leave, John drove at full speed, leaving the echoes of angry voices behind. Paul rested his head on the window, glad to be away from the madness. A heavy sigh left his lips. At least he had made it out alive.

“You alright there, son?” John looked sideways and at the road, trying to comfort Paul.

The man in the other seat smiled weakly. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

The rest of the drive they sat in silence.

~~*~~

They arrived at Kenwood; the sun was in its afternoon position. Cynthia was in the house with Julian, John greeted her with a kiss. It made Paul slightly jealous, but there was nothing he could do.

“Cyn, can I speak with you in the kitchen, please?” John dragged Cynthia in the kitchen, though their conversation could still be heard.

“Hey, Jules,” Paul directed at toddler playing with blocks on the floor.

“Hello, Uncle Paul,” responded the three year old with enthusiasm.

_“Cyn… Paul’s been having a rough time at his house. I told him he could stay here a while.”_

_“John, I’m not sure if I’m completely comfortable with that.”_

“You playin’ blocks there?” Paul knelt on the floor, helping Julian build whatever it was he was building. The young boy nodded, welcoming Paul into his construction endeavors.

_“What do you mean you’re not comfortable?”_

_“Because… he’s mentally ill, John.”_

The tower collapsed from weight, and as a result, Julian cried out in protest.

_“What?”_

_“He’s sick John, I don’t want his kind around Julian. They prey on children.”_

_“Cyn…”_

_“No, John. We can’t have men like him in this house.”_

“That’s alright, Julian. We’ll start it over,” Paul patted the boy’s head.

_“I don’t give a shit what you think. He’s my friend, and he’s staying here.”_

Footsteps were heard coming from the kitchen, John strutting angrily in the room.

“C’mon Paul, we have a guest bedroom you can stay in for a few days.”

John directed him to the guest bedroom, both men walking in silence as they went up the staircase. There was obvious tension between them, but neither man had intended on breaking it.

“Well, here’s the room.”

“Thanks.”

“Also, you can borrow some of my clothes.”

“Right.”

Both men stood in the room in silence, a piercing gaze lingering between them. John backed away, closing the door behind him, the lock clicking soon after. Now it was just them. He rushed to the other man, placing a his harsh lips against the other. Paul practically fell onto the bed as John pressed himself against the other body. Tongues intertwined in their mouths as the sloppy kiss grew deeper. Their only interruption came when Paul pulled away to breathe, forgetting his nose was built for that purpose.

“God, John. We can’t do this here.”

John caressed the side of Paul’s face, running a thumb on his cheeks. The other man shivered under the contact.

“I just can’t control myself, son. Not with that face of yours.”

_“Dinner is ready!”_

Both men realized that they weren’t the only two people in the world, looking up at the locked door. Each brushed themselves off as they stood up, trying to remain calm.

It was in that moment they realized that they were starving.

~~*~~

The sound of silverware and dinner plates filled the room as the four people ate in silence. John and Paul sat across from each other, stealing glances occasionally.

Being John Lennon, the man rubbed his foot against his partner sitting across from him. He received a surprised look, his counterpart suddenly frozen.

John chuckled at the reaction, Paul giving him a quick death stare. Cynthia and Julian were oblivious to the small interaction as they continued to eat their peas in silence.

“So, Paul,” Cynthia began her sentence and John looked at her with intense anger, “How long do you think you will be staying?”

“Just a few days. Sorry, I don’t mean to be a nuisance.”

“That’s alright, Paul. Just one thing…” Cynthia seemed weary to continue, “Just… please keep your _personal life_ to yourself please.”

“Cynthia!” John yelled at the woman.

“John it’s okay! Really.”

“Paul, I’m sorry. But you do have to understand I have to protect my kid.”

“Cyn shut the hell up!”

Julian began to cry.

“John! Stop, okay! It’s fine.”

Cynthia quietly picked up a sobbing Julian, carrying him to the other room with a quick strut. The dining room was now embraced in silence. The two men sitting across from one another couldn’t look at each other.

John still staring at the ground, finally spoke.

“I couldn’t let her speak to you like that.” Silence followed the statement, Paul looking at the partially empty plate.

“I already expected this sort of treatment, John.”

“Well it’s still fucked up!”

Paul physically tensed, his features displaying his agitation. “Everything’s fucked up, John! This whole world is fucked up, and there not a god damn thing you can do to change that!”

John lifted himself from the chair walking in Paul’s direction. To Paul’s astonishment, John placed a small kiss on his cheek before leaving the kitchen.

He stood there in shock, his cheeks probably some shade of scarlet.

 Following the actions of everyone else, he retired to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t mean to make Cynthia seem evil, but it is the 60's.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some mild violence.

 

 

The following nights were spent in agony. It wasn’t like Paul was being tortured, but it was agony to be in that house. Aside from the fact that Cynthia didn’t approve of his “personal life”, it was even harder to be around John. Just the fact that he knew John wanted him just as much, but couldn’t do anything, made him cry out in his head. A couple nights he would come in and steal a few kisses, each one feeling new and fresh. It was a miracle someone didn’t walk in on them.

Really, though, what was interesting was the developments back at his home. The police had finally decided to step in, at least stopping people from trying to enter his house. What was even _more_ interesting, however, was the rebuttal that came. All of sudden there were a few fans who came to the scene to… protest the protesters.

It was as if war broke out between the two groups, one calling the other “Bigots!”, and another screaming “Queers!” It was… reassuring. Sure, his house was basically a warzone, but it was comforting to know that some people cared. It was more than he expected. Some bloke contacted John for a TV interview with David Frost. Supposedly unrelated to the events, but there was no avoiding it.

Hopefully in a few days the people would leave his house, so he could at least _try_ to live normally.

There he was, sitting on the couch watching some talk show about… who knows what. Cynthia had gone out shopping for groceries with Julian, and John said he had to run a few “errands”. He was there for hours at the house, trying to keep himself busy, alone. He played around with a guitar lying around; it kept him entertained for a while before John came in.

He walked in with what seemed to be… clothes, dropping them on the table.

“Hey there, mate. Playin around with me guitar?”

“Yep.”

John went over to the couch where Paul was absent mindedly strumming the guitar.

“Playin’ anything good?” John said as he basically threw himself on the furniture.

“Nope, just random chords.”

“So, how you doin’, luv?”

Paul shrugged, returning to the guitar. It did seem as though he was forming a song.

“You seem down. You sure you’re okay?”

Paul wasn’t okay… he hasn’t been okay. This whole thing has come crashing down on him, but he just willed through it. He had forgotten what okay even meant.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Paul looked down at the guitar, unable to meet John’s eyes.

“Hey,” John began to move his figure over to Paul. He placed his hand on one cheek, letting It caress the smooth skin under it. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m right here.”

Paul nodded as John’s hands brought them closer. Gently, a kiss began to form, Paul’s hands griping tightly on the guitar. His heart began to form a rapid pace, his mind unable to form any coherent thoughts. All there was in this moment was John and Paul. He wanted to… he wanted to give John the world. If only he could give him his everything, if only he could give him as much happiness as John gave him. Their lips connected in a sweet melody, the guitar placed softly to the side. One man’s body was atop of each other, fulfilling the puzzle piece they were meant to complete.

John broke away for a moment to look into Paul’s eyes. The other man surveyed his face as his thoughts became wild. He loved John, he loved him so much. But John probably didn’t love him back. It was just a fling, it wasn’t a serious affair.

Paul’s hands gripped onto John’s waist, pulling him down once more. Their lips danced together a second time, hands sliding in all directions.

Then a sound came, as if someone were trying to unlock the door. Immediately John jumped off the couch, making his way over to the front door of the house. Another moment broken.

Cynthia greeted John with a kiss as she entered her home. Why was it so easy for John to switch from one pair of lips to the other?

“Welcome back, luv,” Paul heard behind his back as he began to make his way upstairs.

John and Cynthia formed a conversation as Paul strode back into his room. He fell into the guest bed, his head harshly falling on the pillow. All he thought was, _‘Why Why Why?’_

He attempted to recollect himself, once again sitting up on the bed. He brushed off his clothes, though there were no visible stains on it, and sighed.

_Keep it together_

Another pair of footsteps walked up the staircase. Definitely masculine footsteps. The door crept open as John’s face appeared in the crack of the doorway. He entered the room, closing the door behind him. He looked despondent.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Paul bit his lip, his eyes glued to the floor. “Well, she is your wife after all.”

John walked over to Paul, placing his calloused, yet delicate hands on his cheeks.

“She may be my wife, but… you’re my Paul.”

The smile… it killed him. This was unbearable, it was too much. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of its ribcage.

“You fucking daft sod,” Paul said, leaning into John’s hand.

John placed a soft kiss on Paul’s forehead before departing the room. Paul’s head felt cold after John left.

~~*~~

Paul awoke suddenly, feeling weight on his thighs. He abruptly sat up, surveying his surroundings.

“Holy shit, Paul.”

Paul let out a relieved breath when he saw it was just John. Wait… what?

“Uhh… why are you-”

John smiled sweetly as he placed his tray on Paul’s lap.  

“It’s called breakfast in bed.” The tray, now on his lap, contained a full meal of eggs, toast, and orange juice. The toast was slightly burned, so he had assumed John made it.

“But, why?”

“Well,” John said as he picked up the tray, “If you don’t want it…”

“No!” Paul said as he waved his hands in the air, “I mean, yes, I’ll take it, but… is Cynthia okay with this?”

John smiled sweetly as he placed the tray back on Paul’s lap. “She’s off at her mothers with Jules.”

“So,” Paul said, observing the bread, “we have the house to ourselves.”

“Mhmm.”

John moved from Paul’s side to join him on the bed. He snuggled next to Paul affectionately.

“I can’t eat with you fondling me, mate,” the younger man said as he bit off a piece of toast.

“Well then fuck eating.”

Paul finished off the slice of bread before tilting his head to John, placing a soft kiss on his head.

What a great day…

~~*~~

They spent part of the afternoon resting on the couch, watching the telly, and talking about life and death and such. Sometimes it was hard to avoid news stories that included the mention of ‘Paul McCartney’, but otherwise the afternoon was a soothing distraction.

Kisses were stolen every now and then on the couch, but an intense session of kisses began soon after. The clung to each other as if their life depended on it, as if their bodies demanded it. Each man was finally in his place, enjoying the comfort of their partner.

After a long while of intimacy on the couch, John suggested they move to the bedroom… there was no way he would say ‘no’.

They’d slept together one time before this, each moment as perfect and delicate as the one before it. Paul could see it made John uneasy to be exposed like that, to be submissive. John wasn’t very experienced with gay sex, because most straight men weren’t.  But once they began, it didn’t feel like there was a dominant one, they felt like two equals sharing their life together.

They looked into each other’s eyes… as if they knew. Because, _they knew_ they were meant to be in that moment.

And when they were done with their sexual endeavors, Paul would collapse next to John, the older man would stroke his hair. As if they’d done it a million times before. As if they were always one _constant._

And they would stay there. John and Paul. Paul and John. The only two people in the world. It was their fault, thinking that it was just them. As many before them forgot, there was a world beyond them.

Because of that, they didn’t notice Cynthia’s footsteps. They didn’t notice her high heels walking up the stairs as she called for John. They didn’t expect the door to open, and for Cynthia to stand in shock at the door.

And when they finally noticed, it was too late.

“J-John?!”

“Oh god,” the man being called at whispered, still in the arms of his friend, “Oh god, Cyn.”

Shocked, Cynthia escaped through the hallway, her high heels tapping on the staircase.

“Cynthia, wait, please!” John put on his pants hastily, then rushed out the door for his wife. Paul still sat on the bed in shock.

“Don’t follow me, John. I’ll leave, I’ll go. You can stay here and be a pervert, just let me go,” Cynthia cried as she ran down the stairs, tears filling her eyes. Her high heels caused her to trip on the last step, making John rush to her in alarm.

“John, get away from me!” she yelled as John tried to help her up.

“Please, Cyn. Don’t take Julian. Please.”

She stood from the carpet floor, wiping her eyes again. “No! No, I don’t want my son around perverts!”

She paced to Julian, sitting on the floor with his toys.

“Cynthia, please don’t take him away!” John cried put, tears forming in his eyes as well.

“Goodbye, John!” She rushed out the doorway carrying Julian.

“You fucking bitch, get back here!”

Julian started to sob. His eyes were full of fear.

John grabbed Cynthia by the arm, wrestling her to retrieve Julian from her grasp.

“John stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Give him to me!” John became even more aggressive, and Julian’s cries became louder. Paul came rushing down the staircase. He saw the scene in front of him with horror, so he rushed to the area to try to pull John away.

“John, let go!” He cried at his friend.

“The bitch has my son, Paul.” Tears flowed from John’s eyes, his face was crunched in anger.

“You’re hurting mommy!” Julian cried in Cynthia’s arms. He too tried to relieve John of his grasp, his attempts failing.

Once John saw his son’s frightened eyes, he panicked. He wasn’t just the absent father now… he was the abusive one. He didn’t want to be this way… he didn’t choose this fucking life!

He slowly backed away as Cynthia looked at him with a mixture of hatred and fear. She walked out without saying another word.

John stood in silence, seemingly staring at the door, but Paul could tell his mind was elsewhere. He looked frightened, but at the same time he looked as if all his rage were going to build up and burst.

“John?”

“This is what where gonna do, Paul,” John began, eyes closed and his body tense, “I’m gonna drive you home, and you agree to stay the fuck away from me.”

“What?” Paul’s eyes widened in fear of abandonment.

“You did this to me, Paul,” John began again, his eyes now open, and giving Paul a piercing gaze, “You got into my head, and you made me a pervert just like you.”

Paul stood in shock across from John, his mouth slightly open to indicate his incredulous state.

John seemed for a moment as if he was going to walk towards Paul, but instead pushed past him, grabbing the keys to Paul’s house. After holding them in his hand, he proceeded to walk out to the car, Paul following behind.

“John… can’t we talk about this?”

John said nothing. He entered the car with a blank expression, expecting Paul to follow him.

“John, please.” Paul followed after John, waiting for some sort of expression. “Say something, please.”

The silence hurt. For John to just throw him away, it just hurt. Everything hurt.

John opened the door to the car, emotionless, waiting for Paul to enter. Paul barely had enough energy to get into the car. It felt as if he were giving up. He wanted to cry… he wanted to feel something. But there were no expressions he could conjure that expressed his current state.

The ride felt painfully slow and agonizing. Each second of wordlessness felt like torture. There was no possible way either of them could look at each other. It felt like torture in the car, but it was even more horrible to exit the car. There was more pain in leaving John, wishing he could of done something. Maybe they could have talked, they could have settled this right there. But they didn’t. And that fact tortured Paul, now exiting the car. They didn’t even _try_ to make it better.

The streets of Cavendish Avenue were empty, the protesters had gone home. The front part of his house was a mess, but nothing mattered then. There was nothing left to be felt.

As soon as Paul stepped out, John left in a hurry.

This was real life. There wouldn’t be a happy ending.

Especially for people like him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I guess yeah. I don’t know crap about David Frost so yay me.  
> Also school has been pretty rough and shits happened and i don't have a lot of time to write. I will update frequently enough to still be considered "alive", but if there's a two month gap, you know the reason.

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special quest tonight… though, _all_ our guests are quite special. I’d like to welcome here, the Beatle John Lennon!”

The room filled with the sound of claps and cheers, but some people avoided it. There were die hard Beatles fans in that audience and some people who came for the bragging rights of seeing David Frost’s show. The Beatle in question walked out, dressed in a jersey knit turtle neck, another obsession of his along with the old Greek Fisherman’s hat. Lifting his hand to wave at the audience, he proceeded to sit on the interview chair. Perhaps they would spare him tonight.

The interviewer, David Frost, made himself comfortable in the chair next to John. He was very fond of satire, though it would take someone with greater courage than him to try to joke about the recent events. It was still hard to not mention.

“Wow. John Lennon. It is a pleasure to have you here with us today,” Frost gave a genuine smile, “now… now one thing we’ve been rehearsing to talk about is the release of Revolver. Which comes out… in a few days?”

John escaped the thoughts munching on the edges of his brain. He was pulled back into reality, focusing on the question in question.

“Yeah… that’s right,” He said, crossing his legs and resting his attention on the interview.

“So, what do you think about the album? Is it anything _new_?”

John nodded. Okay, this is a good start, “Well, you know… I think it’ll be just _grand_ , David. We worked hard on this, y’know? We tried to make things new and fresh. Like we tried with the last one.”

“Rubber Soul was it?”

“Yeah, but better.”

David gave a friendly chuckle continuing on, “So, I’ve heard you’ve stopped touring. You think this is a good thing for the group?”

“Well, y’know. We’ll miss this sort of thing, but we can’t very well hear ourselves when we’re playin’. And now I guess we have more time to work in the studio. Y’know experimenting and what not.”

David Frost gave a sympathetic smile before continuing… maybe too sympathetic.

“So, John…” Frost swallowed, trying to make this seem as friendly as possible. The things he does for journalism, “If I may ask... What are _your_ thoughts on the recent events with Paul?”

The dreaded question.

“What recent events?”

“Uh…”

“Oh right those! Yes, he bought a beautiful estate. It’s lovely!”

The interviewer’s face was now annoyed, he rubbed to anxious fingers on his forehead.

“Yes the estate is quite lovely John, but what do you think about Paul… Paul being a homosexual?”

“Ah,” John rested chin in his hand, “Well, it’s not really my place to have an opinion.”

The audience was silent. Tension soared throughout every member of the crowd. This was supposed to be a lighthearted show.

“I mean… I love him, he’s my best friend. But, what he wants to do with people is none of my business. And… it’s not like he’s open about it, he just didn’t want to live a lie anymore. I guess is what he thought.”

David scanned the situation, then displayed a suspicious smile. He bit his lip as if he were trying to hold back laughter.

“So you sympathize with him?”

Someone from the audience laughed.

~~*~~

Paul watched intently from his home in Cavendish, his eyes set directly on the television. Martha lay resting on his lap, Paul stroking her back.

Okay, so perhaps the whole John hating him thing wasn’t completely true… they were best friends after all. I mean to say that he loved Paul, a homosexual, in front of an interviewer was a pretty good sign wasn’t it? Or maybe it was just something people say when their band mates in the most famous band in the world say that they’re queer. Maybe he was lying.

It didn’t matter. Paul eyed the television; his anxious strokes on Martha’s back became harsher. The dog squirmed away from the pressured man’s grasp.

“So you sympathize with him?”

Fucking hell, someone laughed. Some bunch of groupies actually booed.

“If you’re asking me if I like men, than the answer is no. No way. But… I don’t think… y’know, I don’t think it’s wrong if Paul does, y’know?”

John started to blink rapidly, it was a habit he acquired when he was nervous. He also said “y’know” a lot when he was under pressure, like during the whole Jesus controversy. Now that he thought about it, he had the same habit as well.

“So you condone this sort of behavior, John?”

The fans in the audience started yelling something, and probably were on the edge of being  escorted outside by now.

“Well, if you’re gonna phrase it like an asshole, then yes!”

“Well! Thank you, John, for coming on the show! Now a quick commercial break-”

The camera began to slowly zoom into David, John’s face being cut off. That Lennon bloke realized what was happening… and of course did something about it.

“Hey just wait a minute, son,” John said shoving his way into the shot. The scene cut off, and a commercial for cereal began to play. It was funny… or maybe it shouldn’t have been.

Maybe, maybe John didn’t completely hate him. Maybe John still liked him enough to defend him on national television.

~~*~~

Revolver came out today.

No one’s going to buy it.

Probably because of him.

 _Especially_ because of him.

~~*~~

A mountain of blankets surrounded Paul, his world darkness. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to remain in the solace brought by emptiness. There were no reporters; there were no fans. There was no John.

But he knew only fools spend time in a fantasy world, because the real world leaves them behind.

His buzzer rang, the peace of the blankets fled from him as he stood up walking towards the door. Sluggishly he arrived at his side of the buzzer. He gave himself credit for dressing himself, just opening his eyes in the morning was an incredible chore.

“Who is it?” Paul spoke softly into the speakers, waiting for whomever to answer.

“It’s me,” George’s voice sounded through the intercom.

“Is it just Me or do you have a last name?”

“Shut up, you twat.”

Paul shook his head, clicking the button for the gate to open. In came George’s car, parking into his driveway. He was glad someone could still joke with him.

Walking up to the door, he greeted Paul with his guitar in his right hand, his other hand waving friendly.

“So,” George said walking into the house, “Are you doing okay?”

“Good as ever!” Paul said sarcastically as he sat next to George, who had already made himself comfortable.

“What happened to you front yard, mate? It’s completely wrecked” George continued as he picked at the strings of the instrument.

“Have you been watching the news at all?,” Paul’s voice sounded as if it had the weight of a thousand pounds on it. It was a miracle he could carry those thousand pounds to the couch.

“You okay, mate?” George said as he followed behind, both men now seated on the couch.

“Yeah, just a lot goin’ on y’know.”

“Ahh.”

They sat in silence for a few somewhat awkward moments.  Paul had acquired a guitar in his hand. George might as well keep his hand busy with a six string, too.

Maybe George should just cut the crap.

“I visited John a few days ago.”

Paul didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to.

“He’s in pretty bad condition.”

Against his own will, Paul spoke, “Why’s that?”

Both men stared at each other for a few long seconds, trying to read each other’s expression.

George looked somewhat… sheepish.

“George, why is he in bad condition?”

“Because…” George paused, looking at the ground, “Well, I guess you’d know better than me.”

Paul analyzed George, his body displaying an uncomfortable state. What could possibly be behind those dark eyes? He couldn’t possibly know. John couldn’t have told him. No, he wouldn’t do that. But...

“Paul it’s okay. I-I get it.”

“What?”

“I know.”

He knew. He _knew_. _He_ Knew.

Maybe Paul shouldn’t be so rash, maybe John made up some elaborate lie. It’s just an elaborate lie! That’s all. No one knows. No one will ever know. There is nothing _to_ know.

And then he started laughing. Paul started to laugh!

Ha ha ha ha ha!

God it was too funny! What a fucking idiot he was!

He had to hold himself, he was laughing so hard.

“Paul... Are you okay?” George spoke softly. It was the voice of concern. George had never seen Paul so… fragile.

“Oh, Oh George,” he couldn’t breathe, “What do you know George, huh? Ha! What is it that you think is so secretive, you can’t even directly tell me, hmm?”

“Fuck off, Paul. I was gonna be nice about this, but you don’t have to be such a twat!”

The giggles filled the room, short and sharp. Paul closed his eyes, leaning forward.

George stood up from the couch angrily, his guitar in some corner now. “I know you and John fucked like rabbits, okay? I don’t give a shit anymore. This group hasn’t been the same since whatever the hell happened between you!”

The laughter stopped. Paul stopped leaning over the couch, his eyes were open. This time he listened. His mask of giggles broke apart.

“I’m sorry, mate. It’s just that… I don’t want to see you guys fall apart. Y’know?”

Instead of the mask, Paul stood silent. He looked as if he were contemplating something, staring into nothing.

“I love him.” Those words weren’t intentional. They were fabricated into him.

“What…?”

“I loved- love him. I had him. I had him for a second, then I lost him. It’s like I just… I barley grazed him…. And it was the best feeling in the world. It… it was the world. And it all fell apart in a second.”

Paul searched for George’s sympathetic gaze.

“Is this my life now? I can’t even be with a person, because they’re a bloke? Of all the things that I could’ve been…” Paul couldn’t finish his sentence. The water grazing his cheeks took him by surprise. George, one of his final friends stood above him, almost shocked.

“Paul… Oh god.”

Paul’s back was comforted by the stable palm of George Harrison on his back.

At least someone didn’t think he was a monster.

~~*~~

John’s vision was darkness. Only one ray of light beamed through, yet it wasn’t welcomed by the melancholy band member.

“And John Lennon’s appearance on David Frost…”

“Oh shut the fuck up!” John yelled at no one in particular while he stood up to shut off the television.

The blankets he had wrapped around himself were now scattered on the floor. His only fortress of solitude now destroyed.  It’s funny how something could be destroyed so easily.

Maybe playing a bit would ease him a little. Or maybe some writing? At least he was dressed.

He was just about to go write something down when mysterious knocks came from the door.

“The hell?”

After a brief walk over to the front door, he found his band mate standing at the door, waiting for entrance.

“Oh. Are you lost mister?”

George brushed past John’s shoulder, ignoring his comments. He sat down on the lone chair in the living room.

“So…  where’s everyone?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Oi, what’s wrong, brother?”

John followed George’s actions, taking a seat on the couch that was too large for just him. But it wasn’t just him, his friend blanket was there. Damn he could use a cigarette right now.

  
“Why’re you here, again?”

“ ‘Cause I haven’t heard from any of you in about three days!”

John’s hand reached for the box of cigarettes in his coat pocket. The lighter from the coffee table supplied to fuel, and John fell silent, puffing smoke from his mouth.

“Well??!” George said, annoyed with John’s uncooperative attitude.

“Shit’s been going on okay?! We’ve just got an album out and Paul’s fucking doing whatever he’s doing and half the world hates us and half of it loves us and… and…”

John’s eyebrows furrowed into one sad expression. He butted out his fag prematurely, as he settled into the couch. Looking into the distance, he crossed his arms, once again hurting in silence.

“John, I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you and Paul okay?”

One look from John, and George knew. Sure, he didn’t know the story, or the cause of his pain. But underneath all that is John Lennon, he caught a glimpse of someone torn. Someone who’s been ripped to shreds. Because for a moment, John let himself look scared.

“We’re not okay… because we’ve ruined this whole thing.”

“I’m not sure I understand how-”

“I like him, George. I like him so much that now I’m a fuckin’ wreck.”

“What are you-”

“I’m saying, you shit, is that me and Paul are a bunch of fairies! Y’know, queers, poofters, assfuckers?!”

George stood silent for a moment in his chair. Of all the moments to be the quiet one…

“So you’re a…” George trailed off, “too?”

“No… I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think so. I just… I like Paul. And ever since the time we spent in my house here I don’t know what to do…”

The quiet one swallowed the lump in his throat, “Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.”

“D-does Cynthia know?”

“Do you see her in this house?”

A sort of shock overcame George as he stood up, not exactly knowing where he was going.

“Well… um…” he said, as he slowly walked around the living room.

“You don’t have to be my therapist, George. Just let me wallow a little while.”

George regrettably respected his wishes and left.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

“This is Emily Carr with BBC News. Today’s story, is the release of the Beatle’s new album, Revolver. But of course, that isn’t all of it.” The reporter was new to the team, so she hoped she wouldn’t screw up this story.

“As most of you know, Paul McCartney has done what people are calling “coming out” as a homosexual. Even with this in mind, Revolver has still managed to go to number one on the charts.”

The camera switches to a clip from earlier.

“Here I am at a record store in London, where young boys and girls are lined up to get to buy the new record. Let’s ask just a few of them what they think.”

There were several people to choose from in line, but the best bet would be to go up to some typical groupie. Especially since most of the others were yelling at the camera.

“Young lady, why are you buying the record, knowing that Paul McCartney is technically a criminal?”

The young teenage girl she was addressing looked distressed.

“Oh don’t phrase it like that! The Beatles are a _fine_ band. I mean sure, you could say that what Paul does is a bit “odd”, but it doesn’t matter. It’s _still_ a _fine_ band!”

Nodding politely, the reporter moved on to other youngsters, getting the same or a similar response. The clip ended with Emily back at the studio with a psychologist and “expert” on sexual behavior. She smiled to him, beginning her questions. Maybe this wouldn’t last forever.

“Hello, Dr. Jimothy, Thank you for joining us. For everyone at home, I’m joined here by Dr. Frank Jimothy, he’s a psychologist and expert in sexual behavior. Now… Dr. Jimothy, from a scientific perspective, what is your view on the matter?”

“Now, I could say a lot about this. But to simplify this in terms the general public would understand… homosexual behavior is a paraphilia, it’s not normal. It’s a classified mental disorder and should be treated as such. Now, as for the legal status, it should not be illegal, but we should treat those suffering from it to live heterosexual lives.”

Emily pushed on with a fake white smile.

“Now, according to our sources, there is a bill in Parliament that is pushing for the legalization of Sodomy. Some are even calling it the ‘McCartney Bill’.”

“That’s great and all, but the fact of the matter is, that being a homosexual is a _very treatable_ disorder. And this man, McCartney, he’s gonna put it in our heads that it’s normal. But it’s not, this is something that should be changed.”

The things she does for journalism.

~~*~~

It was a gentle afternoon at Kenwood, John sat in his home watching the BBC News report on Paul. Which he shouldn’t be watching because all it would to is conjure up some bad memories. He had a beer in his right hand, the condensation from it making his palms slippery and wet. Some bastard psychologist talked on the screen about how being a queer should get you put in the loony bin. Whoever thinks that should be put in the loony bin.

Maybe he should be happy with how things are. Revolver is a hit, and John just got an offer to do a movie. Lot’s of people would die to be him. But he wanted die from being him. He couldn’t be happy watching TV all day. He needed inspiration, some sort of will.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He set the beer on the coffee table, and he was so fucking happy he didn’t have to put a fucking coaster anymore.

He was about to go take a piss, when he heard Paul’s name again on the TV again.

“This is Johnathan Wanke,” said some blonde bloke, “I’m here at Cavendish, home of Paul McCartney, where earlier we were able to ask him some questions. Here you’ll see the hostility these kinds of men can contain.”

The screen faded to Paul walking out of the gate of Cavendish Avenue. John sat back down, holding the piss in, because this was much more interesting.

“Mr. McCartney,” said Mr. Wank or whatever to the rushed Paul, “Mr. McCartney do you have a second?”

The man in a hurry sighed at the microphone in front of his face. He was not getting out of this one.

“Alright, what is it then?”

“Mr. McCartney, do you think Revolver’s success, and your ever growing popularity will influence teenagers to undergo a life of perversity such as yourself?”

“Please get out of my face,” Paul said as he walked along the pavement. His afternoon stroll would not be a very good one he could see.

“Mr. McCartney, several youth are starting to be more comfortable with these odd sexualities. You’ve started a crisis.” The small camera crew tried to follow Paul down the pavement. Within reason of course.

Paul turned at the sound of those words, a noticeable agitation appeared on his face.

“Listen here you b----“

John laughed at the bleeped out word back at home.

“I don’t care if you hate _me_. But if your kid “comes out”, don’t hate _them_.”

Paul strutted away, walking alone into the distance. The screen cut again to Jonathan Wanke standing alone.

“Clearly you can see how the homosexuality is projected unto others. This is a serious issue in this country, and make sure to tune in tomorrow at 6pm in the evening when we will air a special report on this disturbing lifestyle. This has been Jonathan Wanke, BBC News, London.”

“Oh fuck you, Mr. Wanke.”

~~*~~

Paul, Ringo, and George sat in Ringo’s parlour, drinking tea and talking about what the hell ever. John did not join them at that evening, because Paul had agreed to come before he did and the thought of being in the same room at the moment was one to be avoided. The room filled with the sounds of slurps and laughter, and Paul, admittedly, was having genuine fun. Which one given much thought, this was kind of sad. Interruptions were minimal, but it wasn’t until the phone rang that they all directed their focus at something other than themselves.

“Hello?”

“Ringo? It’s Brian.”

“Brian! Haven’t heard from you since we stopped touring.”

The sound of the man’s name made the other two members suddenly interested, turning their heads in focus.

“Well, I called because… well, John got a part in a movie. And I don’t think you guys will be able to see each other in a while, so I thought I should tell you, since you were all together….”

“A movie, eh? Well! That’s dandy.”

“Yes and he’ll be gone for a few months, so we won’t be recording for a while-”

“Fantastic! Goodbye!”

“Bye?”

Ringo hung the phone up, turning to Paul and George.

“What?” George said as if he read Paul’s mind.

“Well,” Ringo started, “John’s gonna go away for a while to do a movie, so we get a mini vacation. And also, Paul, I think a little break might be nice.”

“Great, I was thinking about going to India,” George interjected from nowhere.

Maybe two or three months away from John would be a good thing. He could focus on himself… and what not. 

“Have you guys still not been talking?,” Ringo directed at Paul.

“Why would we not be talking?” Paul said.

“Oh, right you don’t know.”

“What?”

“You don’t know that I know.”

“Know?”

“Know.”

“George, why didn’t I know that he knew?!”

“I don’t know, if I know, he’s probably gonna know eventually!”

Paul sighed heavily as Ringo seated himself on his couch.

“It’s alright Paul. I don’ judge.”

The man in question glared at his companions before standing from his chair.

“It’s getting late, I better be going.”

“Suit yourself,” Ringo said with a light tone.


	8. Chapter 8

 

Germany looked like a nice place from up here. Celle, especially, was a mixture of the country side and city, enough for him to relax a while. They’d been filming the beginning of “How I Won the War”, and taking a nice break in Paris. Of all places, Paris. He hoped Paul was enjoying his little vacation from all the Beatles. Though it was hard to avoid the publicity he received.

He hoped Paul enjoyed his vacation from him.

He liked to beat himself up, trying to make himself believe that he was better than the things he hated… or in this case loved. Except he didn’t love Paul. He couldn’t, it wasn’t normal.

He supposed it wasn’t weird to have these feelings. They were only part of being human, to be odd from the rest. Brian surely looked like he was having a dandy time having them. Trouble with it was Paul. God he couldn’t stop saying his name _over_ and _over_ in his head, God it was killing him.

He stepped away from the balcony and returned to his hotel room bed. The sheets were ruffled from his anxious perusing. Maybe it was a cliché that now he believed that the things he loved the most destroyed us. It sounded sappy on paper, but when it happens it’s reality. It’s tough. Unimaginable.

But why?

His hands reached his forehead as if he were subconsciously trying to rub away all his misfortunes. Perhaps there was a bright side to this? The media seemed to be responding well, and people were buying the record from what he heard. Oh god the record! How is he gonna stand months with Paul in the same room recording the next one?

“Well Lennon, you’ve got yourself in such a big mess, that yer talkin’ to yourself in a hotel room.”

It was the phone ringing from the wall that distracted him from his thoughts. He gathered his weight to answer.

“Hello?”

“John, it’s Brian. Now about Paris tomorrow…”

Wonder if Brian knew.

“… Paul will be joining you and Neil-”

He obviously didn’t know. That’s why John hung up the phone, because he didn’t want to bother to even begin to deal with anything. This whole tangled knot he has in him is a mess.

Maybe he should take on wearing those glasses he got a few days ago.

~*~

It was raining the day he and Neil took a train ride to Paris. They were meant to spend the weekend there, and meet Paul and Brian. Maybe he and Brian exchange methods of fucking blokes together. What a ridiculous thing to think, John.

How convenient it was for the mood as water fell from the sky. The clouds covered the blue expansion and there was more darkness than light.

After an exhausting ride that’s only highlight was its suspense, John and Neil took another trip in a car. He didn’t want to see Paul, and yet it was riveting. His anxiousness translated into resentment, anger, but somehow want.

His fingers tapped an inconceivable tune on the side of the door, to the annoyance of the passengers in the car.

They arrived at a remote restaurant, Neil handling the talking because John was rather unable to in the moment. They were escorted by the server across the room. There was an ambience in the room. There were conversations, hundreds of them, all warped together into one symphony. There was a fragrance of French delicacies traveling the room. In any other situation this would have been calming, however this was not any other situation.

He first saw Paul talking to Brian, engaged in something else. His hands, the same ones that he felt not to long ago, synchronized with the words coming out of his mouth. His lips were red like roses, or maybe that was the lighting, but they looked soft like one. He didn’t want to think about it too much. He didn’t want to focus on how Paul looked, and how much the urge in the back of his mind pleaded for more. Something beyond just a look.

When Paul spotted him, John and Niel were already at the table, preparing to sit down. Paul froze in the same way John was captured, as if there was a silence between them they both were trying to savor.

Paul tried to avoid John’s stare, and John proceeded to play with his silverware, no matter how much Mr. Fancypants the waiter looked at him in disdain.

The conversation was held by everyone, but John and Paul never spoke directly. It’s as if they were competing to see who could look less at each other. The nothingness of that moment, where they tried to ignore eachother stung and felt relaxing at the same time. He wanted to talk with Paul, converse with him like they used to. But it stung to look at him. Paul flashed him a quick glance. He couldn’t see what was behind those eyes, but there was something there.

“Excuse me gentlemen.”

Paul stood up abruptly, his feet taking him to the restroom. John’s legs were stationary, but for only a moment before they stood as well. Paul was already in the lou by the time John was up, walking in the same direction.

_This is no time to be impulsive you twat_

He pushed the men’s room door open, and found Paul compulsively washing his hands. Paul didn’t notice him in the room, he just kept washing.

John didn’t feel the need to interrupt his washing session. He just watched. He watched when Paul turned off the sink, and rubbed his eyes. He watched when a soft hand ran through the thick mop top. He watched when Paul looked into the mirror, shocked to see John standing behind him.

“It’s been a while since we were both in a Paris bathroom.” John didn’t know what else to say.

“That’s not funny.”

John’s foot tried to move close, to no avail.

“Don’t... come any nearer.”

“Paul we can’t be like this forever.”

“Right. And what is it you want,huh? You want to shag eachother behind the scenes while you use some bird as a beard? Want to start a secret love affair? Piss off.”

“Listen Paul-”

“No! I don’t want to hear it! I don’t care if you’re about to call me a son of a bitch because your wife left you, or if you’re beggin’ on your fuckin’ knees to make me fuck you! I’m done with you and-”

Paul was interrupted by John’s lips. All of sudden he was shoved to a wall, his lips being violated by the man who hurt him, but also somehow couldn’t get enough of. So he let himself have John. For just one second. And then another… and another.

Paul pushed John off almost making him bump into the opposite wall. Paul’s eyes were like spears, piercing John’s senses. But then that look of anger turned into sadness, a frown. Paul’s eyes became red with the promise of tears. Paul kicked the nearest stall next to them, leaving a dent.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, John? I-I tried to get you out of my head. I don’t want to love you, but I fucking do! You can’t do this shit to me John! You can’t fuckin’ tell me you’ll never speak to me again and then kiss me a few months later. Fuck you Lennon!”

Paul walked out the door, wiping his eyes with his trembling hands. Instead of walking towards the table, he left the restaurant in a brisk walk.

John stood silently for a moment to himself. He calmly walked out to the table where Neil and Brian were sitting, trying to keep his collective.

“Neil. Brian. I think I’ll be heading back to the hotel.”

And with that word he left.

~*~

It was raining when John was in his hotel bed. No lightning or thunder, it was just droplets of water falling from the sky.

John’s eyelids drooped down, and in any minute he would be peacefully and blissfully-

And then there was a bloody knock on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

John didn’t know who the hell “me” was, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck and slouched to the door. A tired hand opened it, and who would’ve guessed, Paul McCartney was standing there looking at him.

“When do you leave for Spain?” Paul asked, soaking wet.

“Tomorrow.”

Paul said nothing and stared with a desperate eye. There was tension, and repressed anger, desperation. There was a mix of emotions in that stare, and John seemed to understand all of it.

“Would you like to come in?”

Paul was still silent. His eyes scanned the body of the dry man, as if he were looking for something. A single droplet rolled down the side of Paul’s cheek and John didn’t know If it was from the rain or if it was a repressed tear.

In the silence of that moment, Paul almost threw himself at John, pushing him to the small hotel bed. Paul’s stare turned into desperation, and that desperation translated into a harsh kiss. John laid back and took in everything Paul offered.

But Paul stood up from the bed. Slowly and quietly, he began to walk backwards. John grew more despondent at every footstep Paul took towards the door.

When Paul reached the door, he closed it.

Now it was just the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's true. In real life John did go film in Germany and then met with Brian and Paul in Paris. Isn't that really convenient to the plot?
> 
> comments are appreciated, if you have anything to say, say it below! :)


	9. Chapter 9

The sky was dark, but still blue. It was the sort of blue you get at 5 am, where most of us are asleep, and the rest of us woke up to take a piss.

But Paul wasn’t awake because he needed to take a piss. He didn’t sleep at all tonight. He was in a tangled mess of sheets and limbs with John, pondering how detrimental all of this would be to him. And after all things were considered, it wasn’t the end of the world, it just felt wrong. He wanted to get it over with, to have a grand epiphany stating his hatred or undying love for John, but that never came.

Every part of him that was sane felt guilty, tugging at him like some desperate spirit. Thank God John fell asleep around 1 am, because he wouldn’t be able to look at him for this long. It’s like John had taken the sane parts of him and stabbed it in its heart.

The parts of him that weren’t sane, the sentimental parts… they weren’t there somehow. He knew he was still in love with John, but the chunk of him that did was wrapped and warped by so many other things that it was hard to describe how he felt. With whatever sentiment he held for John, came his own grievances. Paul slides out from under the warm sheets, being stealth as to not wake the man next to him. He dresses frantically in the clothes that were tossed on the floor. He leaves John in bed alone, and looks at him.

He’s asleep, and vulnerable. The way his chest rose and fell was serene. The tension was gone. The mop of hair on his head was tossed over his face, and his lips parted. In any other circumstance, he would have been alluring. But in this moment, Paul’s mind was disconcerted in a mess. He knew that if he were to undress and return to his spot next to John, things could be different. If he climbed into that bed, they could have a secret love affair. Or an open one, who knows? If he stayed in that bed, there’s a chance he might wake up next to John every morning. They could be something, anything, but they would be together somehow.

Maybe that was what Paul wanted. He sure as hell wanted it when he was 15. He wanted it when he was 20. And probably a year ago, he wanted it. So now that he could have it, why was he so hesitant?

There was a time when John felt like comfort, when he felt like home. But that’s gone now.

And so was Paul.

~*~

They were a week into filming “How I Won the War”. But really, there wasn’t much filming going on. John spent much of his time hanging about, thinking or scribbling discordant ideas onto a notepad. There was a song lurking on the edges of his thought. With all of the other shit lurking in there, the song was sort of an outlet. It took his mind off some of the chaos that was happening.  

He had a few words written on the notepad.

_There's no one on my wavelength_

_I mean, it's either too high or too low_

_That is you can't you know tune in but it's all right_

_I mean it's not too bad_

Maybe it’ll be something, John doesn’t know for sure yet. He has a lot of freetime here, and there’s a lot of people he could talk to, but he was out of it. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone.

He tries to stay positive, or at least stable. He hasn’t talked to Paul since he left from Paris. And he was surprised to wake up to an empty bed in Paris. He didn’t want to think about what Paul’s abrupt departure meant.

But he’s in a different place here now. There’s no Beatles in Spain, just him and his notepad.

He wishes it were simpler. He felt nostalgic for an old time, causing him to feel more somber about his thoughts, but it’ll help with the damn song so he allows himself to think. He starts remembering his youth at  17, when he just wanted fame. He kind of gave a fuck about music, but he really only wanted to be Elvis. And when he met Paul, he started actually caring about what notes and lyrics could do.  

He should give his Aunt a call, he calls her every week, and it’s about time. John laughs, remembering all the times Aunt Mimi yelled at him for doing stupid crap… like when he snuck into Strawberry Fields every now and then.

Strawberry Fields.

John wrote it down.

~*~

“It’s not too bad in here in India, Paul. I think I’m liking it here. And the Sitar lessons are going brilliantly.”

Paul took another puff of his cigarette, whilst also taking a sip of his tea.

“That sounds great, George. How’s Pattie?”

“She’s doing alright. We’re having a nice time.”

“Hmm.”

“How about you? Uhh… How are you doing.”

“Alright.”

“You sure?”

“Mhhm.”

“Umm… and John?”

“How would I know?”

“Haven’t seen him?”

“No.”

“Still bickerin’ then?”

“No- I just haven’t seen him, alright?”

“Right.”

“I-I have to go, George.”

“See you, then.”

Paul hung up the phone harshly. He wasn’t in a mood to talk about… his personal life. He was enjoying  a cup of tea and a cigarette, he didn’t want to be reminded of _him_.

So, okay… they did fuck eachother in Paris, but that meant nothing. Paul felt so fucking guilty afterwards he couldn’t bear to see John awake.

Maybe the television will aid him in his emotional recovery. It’s effective taking the mind off important events. Paul turned on the telly, flopping onto the couch.

The woman on the telly spoke, “-soon as 1967, the Sexual Offences Act may legalize homosexuality throughout the UK. Its advocates are of course famous homosexual men, all coming out in the open about what may be a new phenomena. This new fad has of course been inspired by Paul McCartney of the Beatles, who came out as an open homosexual. This act will legalize homosexual acts to those aged 21 and over, as opposed to normal heterosexual acts, which are legal for those at 16. Many psychologists are concer-”

Paul turned off the television. Thinking perhaps not the best choice at the moment.

Maybe some songwriting or just thinking. He was very fed up with being a Beatle. He was tired of some of this bullshit. He wanted something new… to make an album, as if it were other people singing it. Well they would be singing it, of course. But what if they were another band? Singing like another band would, from a different point of view.

He played around with this idea. But he needed to get dinner as well. That sounds like a good idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated, even if it's just to call me a twat! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history behind this chapter is interesting, but end notes will explain. Have fun.

Paul hadn’t the slightest idea why he was going back to France. Well, that’s a lie, he was meeting his friend Mal there, but he wasn’t sure why he had accepted. They had fancied beginning a road trip throughout the country, even if it was November and it was freezing. But, he liked Mal’s presence. He made good company, and it was better than wallowing alone at home in solitude. 

                At the moment, he was traveling to Saint-Eloi Church located in none other than Bordeaux. There was nothing Paul could think of as to what they were going to do driving around, but hopefully they’ll have some sort of adventure. Despite his less than adequate state, courtesy of last night, Paul was driving his Aston Martin DB5, which was a pretty fantastic car. And about last night, it was not fun. He was alone in a club talking to a bunch of strange men. Usually, an adventure, but last night… not so much. But enough about what he had done last night today was a new day to do even crazier shit with his lad Mal.

                He was approaching the church, his marvelous car turning the heads of every bystander. Luckily, none of the passerbyers noticed who was driving the car. Now, near the church, he parked in a remote corner, as he saw his friend under the church clock, as planned.

“Mal!” Paul said coming out of his car. There was no one around, so there no need to be discreet.

“Paul,” Mal said cheerily, “ready to get this show on the road?”

“Definitely. Like the ride?”

“Splendid,” his friend said, nodding his head in approval.

Paul took Mal’s suitcase, throwing in harshly it in the boot of the car. Mal brought his camera to take pictures along the way. Perhaps a memory or two could be made.

Both men settled into the front, ready to begin. And it began as soon as Paul put the key in and drove out into the street.

~*~

Paul was taken by how green France was, especially in the winter. Their road trip had taken them into some of the more obscure parts of the country. Instead of the flashing lights and constant rumbling of a more urban setting, this was a place where quiet was the norm.

Mal, who at the moment was sitting in the passenger seat, was enjoying the view, taking a snapshot every now and then. In addition, he tried striking up conversation to keep their ten hour drive entertaining.

“So about what I was saying,” Mal began, “we follow the Loire River and end up in Seville, or somewhere in Spain. We can see some sites, get pissed. Your choice.”

Paul nodded, “Great, sounds brilliant.”

“Also, might as well, while we’re in Spain. Maybe go see John, y’know? He’s still shootin’ his picture there, so might as well.” Paul’s face visibly fell at that.

Noticing Paul’s expression, Mal said, “Hey, what’s wrong, mate?”

“I just don’t think that’s the best idea.”

Mal’s face crumpled in confusion. “Aww, c’mon Paulie. We can get pissed in whatever pub John is near, and relax. He’s loads of fun. What city is he in, again?”

“No, Mal. We can’t do that,” Paul said, his voice getting harsher with every word.

Mal scoffed and looked at the map, “No listen, I think it’s Alameda or… Almeria. I think that’s it. We can also hire some bloke to drive us; I brought some extra quid-”

Paul banged the wheel of the car, now looking visibly distressed, “Mal, Goddamn it, I said I don’t want to go!”

The passenger’s mouth was now agape and eyes wide, unable to comprehend Paul’s contempt for seeing John.

“Alright! We won’t go. You don’t have to be an arse about it, you know.”

Sighing deeply Paul tried to calm himself for a moment. Right now was not the time to think about the mess he had left behind. This was a day to enjoy himself, and spend with a friend. Instead Paul tried to focus on the green landscapes. They had a tranquilizing effect on the stress. However, his anxiety did not go unnoticed by the passenger, who at this point was very concerned.

“I’m worried Paul. You don’t look very good. You sure you’re good to drive? I can drive, you know, and you can take a breather.”

“I’m fine. The driving helps clear my head.” That wasn’t a lie, and doesn’t get to drive as often as he used to before chauffeur was his main method of transportation.

“No, no. Paul, I know that look. You can tell me what’s troubling’ you.”

“Uhh...”

“I won’t tell. Your secrets are my secrets,” Mal said, crossing his heart and grinning.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to do this driving.”

“Then pull over,” he said with a smirk.

Paul stopped the car, legally or not, and parked it on the side of the road. His passenger looked at him, expecting Paul to begin his tale of woes and worries. Unfortunately, Paul had no idea how to start.

“Well, it has to do with… the controversy,” Paul began, stumbling over every word.

Mal looked a bit confused by his choice of words. “Controversy in regards to…”

“ _My_ controversy.” That was when Mal knew exactly what Paul was talking about.

Trying to be encouraging, Mal continued his inquiry, “I understand. Do go on.”

“It’s that… John and me where... well. I mean-”

He was interrupted with Mal’s single hand in the air. Mal was surely shocked, but out of respect, he wanted to look calm for his friend.

“Paul it’s alright, and I don’t mind it’s just… don’t beat yourself up trying to explain it when clearly you don’t want to,” Mal put on a sideways smirk, “Let’s just go to Seville, alright? We have a long ride ahead of us.”

The driver’s smile reflected the passenger’s smile, turning the car back on again in one swift move. On an unrelated note, did not want to say out loud how fantastic this car was, but did he saw it was fantastic?

The Aston Martin DB5 began to drive again and the road trip was back on. He was with a great friend, in a great place, in _James Bond’s_ fucking car.

~*~

As cars were cars, they require gas to keep functioning. Once Paul and Mal were able to find a gas station, they made a quick stop. One of the workers offered to fill up the car for him, but Paul was hesitant when it came to strangers touching his car. So as Paul was trying to fill the tank, Mal wasted no opportunity to get some images of the countryside, and additionally, pictures of Paul filling up gas.

“Mal, you twat, why don’t you go get some snacks from the store, and be useful for once?”

“Aww c’mon Paul. I’m your fucking roadie, I’m plenty useful.”

Paul waved a friendly hand, “Come off it. Just get in the fucking store.”

“Alright, alright,” Mail grumbled, trotting into the convenience store.

This trip was a lot like the one he had taken with John. He and Mal bickered in the car, but at the same time they appreciated their surroundings. They were captured by how stunning the earth could be. Just like the trip with… John. Rather, it was an echo of that time, except without the tension that the previous trip brought on. He was able to think more here, ponder what was going on in his head.

Out of the corner of Paul’s eye, he spotted a woman walking slowly towards him. She looked like she wanted to say something; however Paul didn’t want to initiate anything he didn’t have to.

“Excuse me?” she said with a French accent, and unfortunately for Paul, she seemed to recognize him.

“Uh… Yes?”

“Are you,” she began nervously, “Paul McCartney?”

“Pretty sure I am. Yes,” Paul said nodding and looking at the gas nozzle.

In return came a smile of youthful glow. She was quite young, and Paul could obviously see she was attractive.

“I just came to… well. You are quite inspiring to me and my friends.”

Paul couldn’t help but grin back at the remark. “Well, thank you for that, uhh… what’s your name?”

“Genevieve… It is just the way you told the world about yourself. It’s very admirable.”

Now that was something nice to hear. Instead of being a temporary picture on a tabloid or someone to be hated, it was nice to know he meant something positive to people.

“Thank you, Genevieve,” Paul took the gas nozzle out of the car. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

“Me… and my girlfriend are very grateful.”

Paul smiled, but was interrupted by Mal’s abrupt entrance.

“Paul! I hope you love crisps!” he exclaimed, while carrying assortments of sweets and drinks.

“Nice to meet you Genevieve. Me and my friend have to go now, but we wish you and your partner the best of luck.”

Paul and Mal got into the car, as Genevieve waved goodbye to the both of them. Both of the riders waved back happily, as the car backed out from the gas station.

“Who was that?” asked Mal from the seat next to him.

“A fan.”

~*~

When they got to Seville, a city they chose to go to for some reason, it was _late_. They were exhausted, worn out, so they decided to get a hotel. As opposed to the flat greens of the beginning of their trip, they were now in Seville, a populous city. It looked quite historic, from its earthy browns to its famous cathedrals Paul had never heard of.

Unfortunately, ever since Mal brought up the whole John bit, he couldn’t stop thinking about the prospect of actually seeing John. He could _actually_ visit John right now. And what was more frightening to him than the possibility of seeing John after months away, was the fact that he sort of _wanted_ to. He knew it was insane… or was it?

When John hurt him back at his home, it was obviously in the heat of the moment. Anyone would say something they didn’t mean after their wife and kid literally just left them. No. No he couldn’t forget. John called him a pervert, he-he… but at the same time he also defended him on live television. He kissed him, for god’s sake, they fucked each h other. Maybe saying that shag meant nothing was an understatement. It meant a lot of things. He knew there were repressed feelings there that he didn’t want to think about.

He and Mal reserved a hotel room for the both of them, and proceeded to get to said room as soon as possible. He was lucky that he was a Beatle, or else they would have said to piss off since they looked like shit. However, since Paul was Paul, they were treated extra special. They were escorted and everything. As the door opened, they each flopped into their own beds, their weight falling into their respective beds.

“Mal,” Paul said into the mattress.

“Uhmdmmmm,” Mal whimpered into the sheets, letting out a string of indecipherable words.

“Maaal, you fucking twat.”

Mal lifted his head to be heard better. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Paul kept his face in the mattress, but his head was to the side, so Mal could hear him. “Mal, I think… uh… I think I want to see John now.”

Mal smiled politely, “Oh, Okay. Sure thing. I’ll give the guys at the office a call to have someone drive us because fuck you if you think we’re doing that shit again.”

“Whatever, mate,” Paul said, planting his face back into the mattress.

That was it. He was _actually_ going to see John, and it was by his own choice. He wasn’t being dragged by Brian; he actually wanted to do this. He was going to see John!

~*~

“Paul, we can’t see John,” Mal said, as Paul was getting out of the shower.

“Huh?” Paul said, drying his hair in a towel.

“I just called up the guys back home. Apparently John’s been back in England for a day. Weird, right?”

“Right,” he replied. To his disbelief, he was genuinely disappointed. Perhaps this John fiasco would have to wait.

“It’s alright, mate. We’ll see him when we get back. If you want we can catch a plane today. It’s only 9 am.”

“Nah.”

“Nah?”

“Let’s go to Africa.”

“Africa?”

“Fuck it, we’ll go to Africa and we can do a… a Safari.”

Mal nodded from his bed as Paul put on his shoes, “Alright, then. Africa.” Both men laughed; however, they were both very serious.

~*~

One of John’s friends had recommended for him to visit an art show, and since he had nothing better to do, he was set on going. He had just gotten back from Spain, and he didn’t want to do something too challenging, so he was doing this. He didn’t know a lot about the avant-garde, and apparently this exhibit was exactly that. He was an artist, however, and he went to art school with interesting people like that. It isn’t as if he was going in completely blind.

 It was being done by some woman that he forgot the name of. Trying to keep both eyes on the road John reached to the car seat next to him, grabbing the paper. He read the name to himself.

_Yoko Ono_

Interesting. If it’s just a bunch of naked people screaming, he’ll probably leave. Or stay, depending on how hot they are. He was still interested in it. It intrigued him. Plus his friend said that the people there wouldn’t bicker him about who he was. He just wanted to see some good art today.

He parked his car, and began to walk towards the entrance. As he entered the exhibit, the first thing he noticed was odd. There were hammers hanging from the wall, nails too. There were clocks, and apple “selling” for 200 quid. He liked the humor of it.

There was a latter in the room. Apparently, you were supposed to climb it, so he did. There was a magnifying glass and small words written on the ceiling that he couldn’t see. When he put the magnifying glass up onto the ceiling it said “YES”.

For some reason, that struck a chord with him. If it had said “NO” or “FUCK YOU”, he would have expected it somehow. He was expecting some negative deep thought from it. But instead it said… Yes. It was so positive that it was interesting.

There was a woman approaching him. She was Asian, with thick black hair. She looked… intriguing like the art in her exhibit.

“Hello,” she said, smiling.

“Hi,” John smiled back from atop the latter.

“For 5 shillings I will let you hammer a nail into the wall.”

John laughed. Interesting. “How about this. I will… give you five imaginary shillings and hammer an imaginary nail into the wall.”

The woman smiled, “Okay. Agreed.”

John did his imaginary stunt, and afterwards climbed down from the latter.

“My name is Yoko,” she said as John was getting down.

“And I assume you know who I am?”

“No, but my friend over there,” she pointed at her friend, “told me about you. I thought we should talk.”

John grinned and talked in a humorous deep voice, “Then we shall talk.”

He liked Yoko.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for some of the research I did in this chapter (as I do for all chapters :)), I was a bit surprised to find so many interesting historical points of interest.   
> 1.) Yes, the trip really happened. I'm not creative enough to make this up! *sarcasm but not sarcasm*  
> 2.) The day John got back from Spain, Paul left for France  
> 3.) When describing his trip with Mal in France, Paul said the following: “ It was an echo of the trip John and I made to Paris for his twenty-first birthday, really.” Holy shit  
> 3.) On his first day alone in France, Paul tried to get into a club wearing a fake moustache and greased hair. He later found out it was better to try to get in as a Beatle.  
> 4.) Mal and Paul really did try to visit John, only to be disappointed that he was in England, and went to Africa instead. How silly.  
> 5.) John met Yoko Ono a day or two after he got back from England.  
> 6.) Paul was very fond of his Aston Martin DB5, which James Bond drove in the original movies.   
> 7.) The way John and Yoko met is straight from John’s mouth.   
> 8.) Comments are appreciated.  
> This has been Beatles history with Alexander. Cheers.


	11. Chapter 11

At twenty thousand feet in the air, Paul somehow felt very small.

After a vacation in Kenya with Mal, they were returning to England on a plane to hopefully begin working on their next album. The public was anxiously awaiting what would happen after Revolver. Some say that they would never be able to top the innovation that came with Revolver. Paul had millions of ideas in his head, but there was one in particular he thought was unique. His idea, so far, had been to make an album from the perspective of another band. He wanted to make an album that flows together, and had a distinct sound.

                With a forced smile, the stewardess, who looked exhausted, brought a tray of food for Paul and Mal to indulge in. Both men said “thank you” and began to dig into their meals. Without realizing the obvious, Mal looked curiously at the packets labeled “S” and “P” on their trays.

“Paul?” Mal asked to the man next to him with a boyish curiosity.

“Mmm?” he replied with a mouthful of food that he promptly swallowed.

“What does the ‘S’ and ‘P’ stand for?”

“Oh, Salt and pepper,” Paul answered, taking another bite.

Mal repeated the phrase to himself, nodding. “Salt and Pepper… Salt and Pepper.”

Paul acknowledged the string of words, turning once again to his friend.

“Sergeant Pepper.”

“Salt and Pepper,” Mal began, “Sergeant Pepper… interesting.”

The men continued their meal in silence, the only sound between them being the sound of forks and knives.

“Lonely Hearts Club,” Paul said out of nowhere.

“That’s a good one,” Mal replied pointedly.

Finally putting the nonsense into more nonsense, Paul began, “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club.”

Mal smiled and nodded, impressed with the meaningless banter.

“You think it could work?” Paul asked, not explaining further.

Mal smirked, and began to work on the meal again, “I think,” he started, “that it’s very clever.”

~*~

Although Paul had the idea of Sgt. Pepper lingering in his thoughts, it was not yet a complete thought. The band, however, was still set on recording their first song. They all knew that this song would be something innovative when they saw the music on their own. John was good at that.

Besides the anticipation Paul had of finally getting into the studio, Paul was genuinely excited to see John again. He felt as if his issues, though still on the edge, had been resolved enough so that he could be close again to John. Perhaps they could start a relationship? Fall in love? Get married and move to a private island together? Of course, that was all wishful thinking on Paul’s part. There was still work to do between him and John. And homosexual marriage would never be legal in their lifetimes, how silly!

This time, he would be careful and thoughtful in his actions. In his new pursuits towards John, he would need to be intelligent, and then maybe they could start something together. However before Paul could start smiling like an idiot and get butterflies in his stomach, he would need to finish his drive to the studio. And if memory serves right, he was almost approaching its driveway.

                Given the almost empty parking, Paul assumed that he was the first Beatle to arrive. He entered Emi Studio, looking forward to the prospect of recording John’s new song. The studio was somewhat empty, besides their producer who George Martin was sitting behind the mixer and the few interns who were walking around.

“Hello?” Paul said to fill the room with some sound. Right he forgot it was soundproof.

“Hello,” Paul repeated, entering the mixing room, where George was sitting.

“Paul, nice to see you, finally!” George responded with a smile.

Paul returned the gesture and asked, “Am I the first one here?”

“You are the first of the group here, but the rest of the boys should be arriving-”

George was cut off by another voice, a voice who’s owner he shared names with.

“Paul, is that you?” Beatles George said coming from the empty hallway as Paul turned, “Mate! I haven’t seen you in months!”

George’s mate turned fully, addressing him with a wave.

“George, how’s it goin’? How was India? How’s Pattie?”

“Great, fantastic, and excellent.”

Paul gave a nod of approval and clasped his hand together, “You ready to get some recording done?”

George smiled widely, “Yes, but first, I’ve got some stories to tell you.”

~*~

With the arrival of their drummer, Ringo, and other members of the staff, the studio was more lively and their conversations more in depth. George had told Ringo and Paul stories of all the fascinating things he had seen in India. He spoke of the sights, the culture, the art, and especially the sounds. He got lost in his words when he began to go on about the sound of a Sitar, and how its sharp sounds vibrated the soul. After this trip of his, he seemed calmer and more at home, which somehow made sense to all of them

They were still waiting on John, and awaiting his presence at the studio. On one hand, he’s John Lennon and usually does whatever he fancies, but on the other hand, he usually isn’t late for these sorts of things. But these were only Paul’s thoughts, and the rest of the bunch did not seem to give as much of a shit. His thoughts were interrupted by the same man that took up so much of their space. The door of the studio opened, showing John Lennon looking at all the faces in the room, with some new glasses.

George and Ringo enthusiastically walked over to him, greeting him with smiles and laughter. George walked over as well to greet the final member, but in a more professional manner. The interns that were walking by gave him a small wave of acknowledgement. They were reunited again. But Paul still remained in the corner of the room, as noticed by John when he scanned the room to find him. John, still conversing with the friends he had not seen in months, smiled to Paul across the room. With his cheeks in a subtle shade of scarlet, Paul smiled back. It wasn’t a forced smiles, or overly enthusiastic. It was a simple shy and toothless smile. For anyone else, it would have meant nothing, but for John to be able to look at Paul and receive a grin in return was something more meaningful than a half assed greeting.

Paul joined his friends in their reunion, after months of separation. They talked for a few minutes, catching up on the important details of their own vacations. Even if all of them were engaged in the communal conversation, Paul and John were very much engaged in each other. Without speaking they glanced at each other, as if communicating with vision. Both men had gotten it across that they were elated to see each other, but there were other things that needed to be said in words.

“Alright everyone,” the producer began after the group had calmed down, “I say we get ready, get settled… and in fifteen minutes we meet back here to begin working on this?”

“Sure!”

“Righteo!”

“Will do.”

“Affirmative.”

The group dispersed to fulfill their own interests, whether that was going to the bathroom, or in John and Paul’s case, finding somewhere private to speak. John bobbed his head to the side telling Paul to follow him to one of the back rooms of the studio. They walked in silence to the room, each step evidence of their tension.  John closed the door behind them as they entered the room, and at first they could only stare at each other, waiting for someone to begin. John sat on top of the desk in the room, as Paul stood awkwardly in front of him looking at the ground. Paul’s heart began to race, feeling as if he was fifteen and obsessing over how handsome John was when he first saw him.

“I like the,” Paul began before his brain could communicate what to say, “Uh”. Paul pointed absently to his eyes, making it clear that he was talking about the glasses.

“Oh!” John said nodding in acknowledgement, “I like them too, you know. I got them in Spain during-”

The reason he stopped in mid sentence was because he felt something settle on his skin. Glancing down, he noticed that Paul’s hand was on his own, still and unmoving.

John’s heart felt as if it was still and unmoving as well, freezing when he looked back at Paul’s hesitant stare. He could get lost in the gems of hazel on the other man’s face. Turning the palm on his desk around, he clasped Paul’s hand in his own, taking it as a promise, and then letting it go as a message.

“Paul…”

Paul looked at John expectedly, ready to be broken or shot down. Slowly and gently, John leaned over, reclaiming Paul’s hand as his own. With his other hand, John clasped the side of Paul’s cheek; bring his head forward, so that their lips almost grazed. Paul let out a sigh from his slightly parted and plump lips, awaiting for John to bring them together. At first, John judiciously brushed his mouth before taking him fully. Their lips slipped and connected with eachother, forming a rhythm, a connection of the puzzle piece. Fully immersed into the collision of mouths, John moaned, the hand on Paul’s hand moving to Paul’s waist. For seconds, they were at peace together, undisturbed and calm.

In one unwarranted move from John, he pulled away from Paul’s lips, looking away. His hands retracted from Paul’s body, instead finding their way to John’s sides.

“Paul, I… I really want to,” he observed as Paul looked at the floor, clutching the hand that was just in John’s, “You have no idea, how much I want to, but… I’m not- not like you, y’know? I don’t want to be unfair to you. I mean, I don’t think I can live like you do, with all these secrets and such. I-I want to be  normal, with a  wife and kids, and look normal, and whoever that wife is, I wouldn’t want to be unfair to her as well.”

Paul leaned somberly against the wall behind him, waiting for John to say “but” or “however”, even if he knew it wouldn’t come.

“Paul,” John continued, looking at the ground as well. Fists formed at John’s side, and the tension in his voice was evident, “I love… being with you. But if I do _this,_ I know I’m gonna hurt you, and that’s the last thing I want. I- I’m sorry, Paul.”

Paul didn’t cry, punch the wall, or scream out loud. He stood there like a statue, frozen in time. He was silent, as if someone had taken his voice from him and locked it away.

John leaned forward to where Paul was standing, and gently took Paul’s face in his hands once more. There was no final desperate kiss, no grand finales. All John gave him were his soft lips connecting to his forehead.

He wasn’t angry at John, and hell, he understood where John was coming from. If he were able to love a woman, Paul wouldn’t have gone through all this shit. He didn’t want to hold a grudge over John, or obsess about how much he wanted him. He _understood_.

When John’s lips left their invisible mark on their forehead, John pulled away, trying to say something to end their painful silence.

All of a sudden, the door whisked open, causing both men in the room to jump.

“Hey!” Ringo said as he and George appeared before them, “here you are! Let’s get back boys; we got a long day ahead of us!”

A long day indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's really how Sgt. Pepper was created. A joke about Salt and Pepper. Oh Paul.


	12. Chapter 12

John was excited to begin a new day of recording at Abbey Road, and the chance to see his friends again. This new album had potential to be something special. In his own acknowledged arrogance, John knew he was making something, well, genius.

As he arrived through the gates of Abbey Road Studios, courtesy of his driver, he saw a news crew standing at the door of the studios. At that, he became agitated at the thought of having to do another interview. All he wanted at the moment was to record some good music.

Exiting the car, and approaching the steps of Abbey Roads Studios, a man from ITN-TV approached ready to attack. John hoped that the reporters at least like the facial hair and glasses.

The man came closer to John on the steps, anxiously asking his question,“John, just a quick word?”

“Alright, alright,” he said, waiting for the reporter to ask his question.

“Are the Beatles going to go their own ways in 1967, do you think?”

“They could be, you know, on our own or together. We're always involved with each other whatever we're doing, you know.”

"Could you ever see a time when, in fact, you weren't working together?"

"I could see us working not together for a period, but we'd always get together for one reason or another. I mean, you need other people for ideas as well, you know. And we all get along fine."

The man tensed for a minute, treading lightly with his next question.

“Has the band been any different since Paul has come out as a homosexual?”

For a minute, John considered answering honestly by saying “Yes”, however that would open up too many doors. Plus, he wanted to get in the studio as soon as possible.

“No… we’re doing just fine. It rarely comes up anyways, y’know.”

The reporter nodded, and seemed as if he wanted to ask another question. John, who was on the brink of wanting to get into the bloody building said, “Well, sorry. I’ve gotta get back to, y’know…”

Quickly evading the look of the reporter, he briskly walked into Abbey Road Studios, finally able to focus on the album at hand.

~*~

Despite the energy that recording took out of them, they still saved some energy to arrange a small get together at Paul’s home. Paul’s home was the closest to Abbey Road, in fact, it was walking distance from the studio, but walking was no option as a Beatle. They still managed to gather at his dwelling, and were now sitting around a coffee table smoking fags with Paul’s dog Martha resting at the side.

“You’ve got to visit India, mate,” George said to no one in particular. “It’s fucking beautiful. The music, too.  We should put some on the new record, something of the sort. I was thinking-”

George, who was very into speaking about his new experiences, was interrupted by a chuckle. John, staring into space, burst out laughing, and began clinging to his sides. In his rapid movement, and excitement, the glasses from his face fell onto the ground, scaring Paul’s pet into another room. If it weren’t for Paul’s quick grasp on John’s forearm, John would have fallen out of the chair as well.

Not taking for granted the brief contact, Paul referred to John with a question.

“You alright, mate?”

John, giving no answer, continued his laughing session to the amusement of the other three Beatles.

“I didn’t think what I said was that funny,” George said to the group, John’s laughter still in the air.

Ringo replied cheekily, “As if you’re ever funny, you twat.”

Slowly but surley, John calmed himself and settled into his chair, but it was still evident something was out of the ordinary. The members of the group had an idea of what could have possibly gone wrong.

Paul, who up until then had been silent, spoke up, “You think he’s on something, eh?”

John turned to Paul with a wide grin, “Ding Ding Ding!”

Their drummer, Ringo, looked at John with confusion. “How the hell did you take drugs between the studio and now?!”

The statement only triggered another bout of laughter to fill the room.

“John,” George said with concern to the man across from him, “John,” he repeated when he heard no response.

After George’s unsuccessful attempt, Paul had had enough.

“John, you fucking tosser!”

Hearing  the command of his friend’s voice, John turned his face in acknowledgement, “Yes, luv?”

“What the hell are you on? Please don’t tell me it’s-”

“Aciiddd.”

“Fucking hell,” Paul cursed under his breath, “couldn’t you have just taken pot? You have to go and take fucking acid.”

John made the expression of a schoolgirl who’s been caught. “I’m sorry, master.”

“Aww, mate. We can’t have him leave the house like this,” George interjected.

“What?” Paul questioned.

“We told the drivers to piss off remember? And we can’t have him taking a cab when he’s like this! I don’t think he should leave the house until he sobers up.”

Paul dreaded the thought of having John sleep over, but George was right. It was unwise to allow John to be in this state alone. Plus, he wouldn’t want to disturb the drivers this late with the tale of “John’s tripping balls”.

Ringo, who hadn’t said anything given his tired state, stared at the clock on the wall, realizing what it told. His friends noticed the abrupt movement of surprise Ringo displayed.

“Fuck me! It’s 3 in the morning!” he yelled.

George scoffed, “Don’t tell me you’re tripping too- Shit he’s right!”

Ringo stood abruptly from his chair, almost running to the door.

“As much as I’d like to help,” Ringo began, “I promised Maureen…”

“Just go,” Paul said, waving him off. The next second, Ringo was out the door. Paul looked at George sympathetically, feeling like a nuisance.

 “You can go, too, George.”

“You sure?”

Paul smiled at his friend’s consideration, “I’ll be fine.”

George returned the gesture, and walked to the door waving goodbye.

“See you mate,” he said, before disappearing behind the door.

Now alone with John, Paul noticed John’s stare out of the corner of his eye. A million thoughts ran in his head as to what John could be thinking, but he ignored him for the sake of keeping the sanity in the room.

“We have got to get you to bed, son,” he said to his friend.

John dramatically curved his lower lip in a pout, “I don’t want to, mother.”

“Okay, well, I don’t want to go to bed knowing you’re here in the living room doing who knows what.”

“I know what.”

Paul moved to John’s other side, tugging at his shirt. “C’mon, I’m tired.”

Before he could realize it, John grabbed the hand Paul used to tug at him. The small contact pulled at his heart, making it beat rapidly in his chest. With Paul’s hand, John lifted himself to be eyelevel with Paul. The two men stared at each other, and though only one was sober, they both were fully aware what the look meant.

Using all his force, John pushed Paul against the white walls of his home. John forced their lips together, an unwarranted action to the other man. For a few brief seconds, Paul froze as John tried to force Paul’s lips open with his mouth. Paul wanted it, _craved it._ But this was wrong. John wasn’t aware of the ramifications of this, and no matter how delicious or soft John’s lips were, he had to pull away.

Resisting the man he thought once irresistible, Paul used his strength to push John off his body.

The air was silent, filled only by Paul’s harsh breaths. Both men could hear their own racing heartbeats.

Though John was far from sober, the image of Paul against the wall sliding down into a ball on the floor still burnt. His mind was clouded by insatiable urges and unprecedented thoughts, all combining into confusion. The thought that he could hurt Paul, hurt him more than any wound. He knew this, no matter what state of mind he was in.

“John, no,” Paul said from the face he had buried into his arms, “not like this.”

Slowly, John walked over to the wall Paul was leaning against, standing over the man who looked like a ball on the floor. John crouched down so that his and Paul’s face would be at the same level. John’s arm began to move forward, as if it had a mind of its own.

“Paul,” John said quietly, reaching out now with the intention to feel Paul’s brown locks. His fingers dug into the flow of the soft mop top on Paul’s head, the hair flowing like silk between his fingers.

When Paul felt a set of hands on his head, he sensed an electrical shockwave throughout his body. With his head still buried in his knees, he leaned his head into the hand, accepting its warm gesture. For a moment he enjoyed the hands comfort, the warm feeling in his chest that it brought. He didn’t think about what he was doing, but instead enjoyed a peaceful moment, a rarity in Paul’s life.

As he leaned closer into the hand, he now began to feel the rest of the arm encompass him. He felt another arm hold him at the opposite side. His head bumped into a chest, and before he knew it, he was a mess in John’s arms.

“Paul,” he heard a voice say against his ear. The warmth of his words resonated in his body, causing a shudder to pass through him

“I love you,” said the voice against his ear, self assurance in every letter.

Those three words shoved Paul back into the harsh world of reality. He removed himself from John’s arms, instead looking at the man in the face from a distance.

“You don’t mean that,” Paul replied, with almost as much self assurance in his words.

“Paul, I love you,” John said, crawling back over to the ground Paul was sitting on.

“No, John. You’re on fucking drugs, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Paul stop!” John said, his face going from sadness to intense fear.

“John?” Paul said, noticing the sudden change in expression.

“Paul, don’t leave. Paul stop! No Paul!” John wasn’t even looking at Paul now, but the area past where Paul was sitting.

“John, John, calm down. It’s not real!,” Paul said, clasping John on the shoulder to reassure him.

“Paul no! Stop! Paul!” John’s breathing was now frantic, looking as if he were having a panic attack.

“John! Whatever you’re looking at, it’s not real.” Paul knew he shouldn’t put his hands on the sides of John’s face, but it was what he did.

John’s heart was beating at an unimaginable pace, his breaths now short and quick.

“Okay, okay… John, just,” Paul brought John’s face into his lap, stroking his hair to comfort him.

“It’s just the drugs John, don’t worry. It’s not real!”

John’s breath’s turned gradually from erratic pleads into calmer and longer drags. The body heat from Paul lulled him into a calm state. Now Paul was the one influenced by the softness on John’s head, like silk in his fingers.

 Paul stayed in the same spot, stroking John’s hair, unable to sleep himself. He waited until the moment he was sure John was at rest, which was unfortunately around 6 a.m., to close his own eyes and fall into a deep slumber.

~*~

 The first thing Paul felt was wetness on his face. But it wasn’t a single wetness in a controlled area; this was a wetness that encompassed all of his features.

Paul’s eyes opened slowly, feeling as there were weights pulling them down. Martha was licking at his face, tail wagging on her behind. When she finally saw Paul awake, she walked back and sat waiting for Paul to get up.

His neck was sore from the awkward position he had happened too fall asleep in. Before he remembered the events of the previous night, he was surprised to find John asleep in his lap, his heart beat beginning to pick up. When the flood of unpleasant thought hit him like a ton of bricks, his mood turned from tired to somber, and his heart calmed itself. Instead of focusing on this, Paul shrugged the thoughts away, trying to stand up as to not wake John.

In this attempt, he failed, as John’s eyes opened the moment that Paul began to shuffle. John moaned with a hoarse voice, and slowly rose from Paul’s lap, which he thought were pillows at first.

Despite the wild state John was in when Paul last saw him, John’s face was stoic now. His eyes traveled throughout the scene before him, processing the millions of reasons why he woke up in Paul’s lap. They stared at eachother, for a time that was inconceivable to the both of them.

John coughed to break the ice, “Er… do you remember what happened?”

“Uhm,” Paul replied, suddenly the spell from John’s eyes broken, “No! Uh… we both took acid, and now we’re here, I guess.” Paul laughed nervously.

“Oh… okay.” John stood up, but his legs were unbalanced and the sun was piercing his eyes.

“Fuck!” John yelled as the sudden movement made his head feel horrible.

“I wouldn’t, erm,” Paul said, rising slowly, ”get up too fast.”

With squinted eyes, John looked at the clock, but only saw a blur.

“Where are my glasses?”

Paul picked them up from the spot they were dropped, handing them over to the confused man.

“Holy shit, its 4 p.m.! Fuck I’m gonna be late!” John began to search for his things, despite how much it hurt to move so rapidly.

Looking at John with a curious expression, “Late for what?”

“Oh… nothing,” John said sheepishly at the man across from him.

“C’mon, you can tell me.”

John began, “Umm, well,” he said swallowing, “I have a meeting sort of thing…”

Paul looked at John with questionable eyes.

. “With who?”

“I don’t know if I should-”

“John.”

“I mean it’s not really-”

“Just tell me for Christ sake!”

“With a woman.”

Paul’s face visibly fell, jealousy pooling at the pit of his stomach. Paul nodded, biting his lip. “Well… have fun.”

“I’m sorry, Paul. But I just need to-,” John said, not knowing what else he could do.

“It’s fine,” Paul said dryly. “Enjoy yourself.”

Paul’s eyes were like knives piercing his vision. John was so conflicted on the matter, he would rather drop it then confronting the problem at hand. Of course he still fell… _something_ for Paul. He thought it was love, but he’s never felt love like this before. This was painful. While he still ached for Paul’s touch, the sight of the other man hurt something inside of him.

But John wasn’t one to pine. His usual love didn’t cause such a mess of feelings that just staring at Paul could conjure. He had to ignore it, let it slip away like the temporary thrill it was.

The tension pooling up from the silence increased in the encounter, and to prevent even more uncomfortable silence, John walked out the door.

Neither of them said goodbye.


	13. Chapter 13

“So this bloke comes up to me,” Ringo began his story to the interest of the outside listeners, “he says, ‘Aren’t you Ringo?’”

Ringo’s arm whipped to the other side of the group, causing the wine from his glass to spill a little.

“So I say, ‘yeah’. And this bloke says ‘You’re the best drummer in the world, I love you’!”

“What did ye say to tha?” George said intoxicated among the crowd of people watching.

“Well” Ringo continued, moving his glass to his lips, “I said what John’s always sayin’. I said, ‘I’m not even the best drummer in the Beatles!’”

The group of friends surrounding them laughed, but it was unnoticed by the rest of the nightclub. In comparison to the sea of faces, their group was only a small one.

“Speaking of John,” George said to Ringo on the seat next to him, “Where is he?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. All I know that it’s only eight and I’m piss drunk.”

Ringo’s interjection caused another wave of laughter in the group. As the conversation settled, the group in question dispersed throughout the night club.

Paul sat away from his friends, but close enough to hear the conversations among them. Most of the people he saw on a daily basis came here to Annabel’s Nightclub to see the beginning of the New Year. Everyone was here, from Beatle George to Producer George to their wives. However there was an obvious member missing among the crowd. John, the usual life of the party, was nowhere to be seen in the crowd or otherwise. Granted, most of the people at the club looked like one communal blob of unclear personalities, but John was one to stand out.

Paul, though, wasn’t in any particular mood to party, even if the New Year was about to begin. He was out of it, and not to mention exhausted from all the recording and writing they’ve been doing. Although, there _was_ mountains excitement for their new record. They’ve been playing around with names, but the album really didn’t have a title or theme yet. Yet despite that, there was something distinct about the sound of what was being produced. There was a unique sound in every song, but it flowed into one.

But those weren’t party thoughts. Those were the sort of thoughts that separated him from everyone else in the room, leaving him once again in a corner alone. God, if he were a normal man he could be rubbing against all of the desperate women out there. If his relationship with his best friend was normal, he could be having a blast with him, if he ever showed up. And if he weren’t such a fucking gloomy bastard, he could be talking to the friends that were sitting feet away from him.

It didn’t have to be the way it was going, but Paul did nothing. All he did was sit there, drinking the rest of his wine until the glass was empty. His eyes wandered the crystal of the vacant glass.

One name was uttered that bumped him back into reality.

“John!” Brian, their manager, yelled from the crowd.

Friends and loved ones went over to the young man, greeting him with laughter and smiles.

But Paul didn’t.

Another thing Paul noticed, John wasn’t alone. There was someone with him. _She_ was on his arm, holding him as if he was her prized possession.

Paul couldn’t help the sick feeling that reached his gut, as if John had twisted his stomach, and broken it into pieces. And his stomach wasn’t the only thing that felt broken.

John joined friends at a table, a table that Paul was sitting next to. As he and the woman sat down, John acknowledged Paul with a smile and nod. Returning the gesture timidly, Paul returned his look to the empty glass in his hand.

When he looked up again, John and his little friend were making conversation and enjoying a full glass of what Paul had empty.

The lighting of the room was dark, but Paul was able to make out some of the woman’s features. The obvious part was her black course hair and her Asian ethnicity. She was wearing a rather short dress, matching the red walls of the room. For some odd reason she looked familiar, and Paul would’ve recognized such a _unique_ person. She didn’t match John’s usual tastes, that being the blonde model type. Paul’s jealousy somehow made him resent her even more for that.

He didn’t realize the length of time he was giving that woman a death stare. It wasn’t until he saw John’s stare out of the corner of his eye that he became self aware. Paul blushed, looking as if he had been caught doing something very wrong.

_The hell with this._

Paul stood from his lonesome table, walking over to the busier one next to him.

Slapping his hands on the table, Paul cleared his throat to get their attention.

“How’s everyone doing?”

The four Beatles at the table and their partners all said some variation of “Good”. Now turning to John and his date, Paul spoke.

 “John, have you introduced me?”

As if he were caught off guard, John responded, “Oh! Paul, this is Yoko. Yoko, this is Paul.”

“Hello,” Yoko said.

Suddenly Paul’s memory recalled who this woman was. He knew who she was. He had provided funds for her art gallery, the Indica Galley. What was she doing with John?

“Hi,” Paul said, still trying to think.

There was a brief silence, before John broke it with his words.

“So, yeah. I met her at an art gallery, she charmed me with her perspective, and I thought to bring here and…” John trailed off, not finishing the thought.

Paul nodded in acknowledgement, slowly moving away from the table.

“Well, that’s just great!” Paul said, sliding away towards the crowd, “Best wishes. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

The table members stared at his odd manner, confused at the sudden departure. Paul had no idea why he was going into a crowd of strangers. When his figure morphed with the collective of people dancing, he was now gone from John’s sight. But he failed to catch John’s concerned stare when Paul left abruptly without explanation, and perhaps it was for the better.

He was pressed against the energy of every person on the floor, navigating through the sea of happy faces. Paul was the one irregular, tripping through the crowd with no direction. After pushing through sea of intoxication, he ended up on the other side of the club, dazed and confused.

All of the laughter, the conversations, the clinking of glasses, it was all ambient noise in his ears. He couldn’t stop thinking about things he was afraid he knew the answer to.

 Could he ever be with John again? Was John going to end up with that woman? Did John even like him?

Why _her?_

Running an anxious hand in his hair, he looked at his watch.

Three hours until midnight.

~*~

After splashing water on his face from the sink, Paul could relax now. He was able to go back to the table, and began engaging with other people, with the exception of John.

He pushed himself into a big group of his friends and acquaintances, and just listened. There was no contribution to the conversation from him, but the effort he put into standing there was immense. Some of their stories were interesting, and on a normal day, something he could listen to.

John approached the circle, Yoko at his side. The woman wouldn’t leave his side for anything. She kept talking about her damn art and how much “complexity” it has. It was frustratingly hard for Paul to find a reason to like her.

“Can you believe that when I met her, she didn’t know who I was?” John interjected into the conversation.

Yoko and Paul exchanged a look, because they very well knew that was bullshit.

His mouth was about to spew all sorts of accusations and insults, but he stopped. When he saw John look at Yoko with soft eyes and a smile, something stopped him. John liked Yoko, for some odd reason. If somehow this woman could make John smile, then who was Paul to be a barrier? There were so many awful words he wanted to spew to John about how this woman was a lying bitch, and John would probably trust him.

But there was something in the way that John looked at her that made Paul’s brain stop himslef. He wasn’t the authority in John’s life. Maybe Paul couldn’t find happiness, but his friend still could.

“Really?” Paul forced, “How fascinating. I can’t go anywhere without being recognized.”

Yoko looked at him with an appreciative eye. The conversation continued with no interruptions, no accusations, and no one was hurt. Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?

One hour until midnight.  

~*~

“Five minutes until midnight!” George said excitedly to his wife, Pattie, after looking at his watch.

Paul who was sitting nearby was being given a party hat by one of the employees, who was passing them out to anyone who would take it.

“Nice touch,” Paul said, as he strapped the ridiculous thing on.

In the spirit of the New Year, most everyone had their festive hat on, and the crowd was getting anxious to greet a New Year with happiness.

“Paul!” Ringo said signaling him to come over to where all of the Beatles and their wives/dates were standing. “C’mon, we should all be together at midnight! At least for the photo.”

Smiling, he walked over to his friends, who were all set up and ready for midnight.

“Good Evening everyone!” said someone from the stage. The club quieted down, and the music hadn’t been playing since a few minutes ago.

“It’s almost one minute until midnight!” the man said, followed by cheers from the crowd. “From all of us here, may 1967 be a thousand times better than 1966,” the crowd cheered once more, “So if you will, I’d like to begin a countdown in just a few seconds… Here we go. 60! 59! 58…”

Everyone joined in on the festivity, including the Beatles.

“57… 56… 55…”

Paul looked around at all the couples who were set to kiss at midnight. For obvious reasons, he was going to be alone this year.

“45… 44… 43…”

He took another sip of his wine, looking at John and Yoko from the corner of his eye.

“30…29…28…”

He didn’t want to see them kiss. Why would he subject himself to that? Why couldn’t he stop looking?

“20… 19… 18…”

He took out a cigarette, deciding to greet the year with a smoke.

“10…9…8…7…6…5…”

The crowd’s voice began to increase with every number.

“4… 3… 2… 1! Happy New Year everyone!”

He saw it. John didn’t even give her a peck on the cheek either. It’s as if John had put on a little show, just to mock Paul in front of him. Every movement of John’s mouth on hers made Paul’s stomach churn and his blood burn in envy.

_Keep your composure. At least do it for him._

There were so many roars and cheers of happiness and the band was playing a great tune, but all Paul could put together was the scene in front of him. He wanted to pull his stare away, but he couldn’t. Even when John pulled away from Yoko, and his eyes caught Paul’s eyes, he couldn’t stop looking. There was some odd emotion behind John’s eyes, but he couldn’t make any of it out.

He didn’t even notice when he moved closer to have a band picture taken together. He wasn’t in a state of awareness. The cigarette in his hand disappeared as well.

“To a great year!” George said raising his glass.

“A great year,” the band members responded, raising their glasses as well.

They drank their celebratory drinks, everyone displaying smiles and high hopes for the time to come. But Paul wasn’t involved in any of that, not tonight at least. His eyes were glued to the floor, trying to repress every feeling that knocked on the door.

He nearly jumped when John tapped him on the shoulder, staring at him with a smile.

“Hey,” John said with a genuine smile, “can we talk for a second?”

Paul nodded, scanning John, who had Yoko right by his side, for any hidden emotion that he could find.

 After seeing Paul’s agreement, John signaled to Yoko, “I’m gonna talk to Paul for a second, luv. I’ll be back right away.”

Yoko nodded, and John proceeded to lead Paul through the crowd of people. As they walked further on, the number of people decreased, and they ended up in an empty room of the club. They had been in this room before a long time ago; it was called “the Buddha Room” by frequent members. There was a statue of Buddha and a calming eastern style to the somewhat intimate room. It was a place where people could talk in private, which John was just about to do.

“So, you’re probably wondering,” John said sitting on one of the earthy sofas. He patted the seat next to him until Paul sat down.

“Why is he leading me into this empty room? Did John go crazy? Well to answer that… I was always crazy, and I also have a good reason.”

Paul smirked, looking at his feet.

“I happened to remember that we didn’t see each other for Christmas,” John said, “so I figured that since I’m seein’ you tonight…”

He pulled out a small box from his jacket pocket, extending it so Paul could grab it. Paul’s eyes rose from the floor to the box.

“In case you’re confused… there’s a tape in there, a song. Just listen to it you’ll… y’know, you’ll get it.”

Paul took the box in his hand, looking now at John’s eyes, covered almost completely by hair and glasses.

“Thanks,” Paul said, looking at the sealed gift, “I’ll listen to it when I get home.”

Looking at Paul with the box, John smiled for a few seconds until his face fell into more of a frown. The small expressions that John had on his face did not go unnoticed by Paul, who was still trying to scan his bandmate for answers.

“You okay?” Paul forced out.

John smiled sadly, laughing to himself.

“I guess I am. It’s just that…. I still miss you, y’know.”

Paul’s face crumpled as if it were a plea.

“I’m right here, if you ever miss me,” Paul said softly.

“Y’know sometimes I wish the world wasn’t like it was because then…” John trailed off.

“Yeah,” Paul said, as if that one word finished the loaded incomplete thought John was hiding.

They looked at each other for a few seconds, trying to preserve the small moment that they could have with one another. Each of their eyes searched for something in the other, but they got lost in a maze.

“Thank you,” Paul said, forgetting what he was thanking John for.

Their positions on the couch were slightly different now, as Paul was suddenly close enough to John to feel the fabric of his clothes rub against his thigh. When John felt his heartbeat start to pick up, he became afraid of something he didn’t understand, and his face did an adequate job of showing such an intricate emotion.

He stood up abruptly, worried for the moment that was beginning to establish itself.

“Well,” John said, voice cracking slightly, “we should go... back.”

Paul nodded almost violently, and stood up when John began to walk out the door. They traveled back into the noise of the club, every step taking them into a more populated area. John shuffled back to greet Yoko, and Paul went back to his corner seat just to listen to the conversations. He didn’t engage with anyone, and he didn’t try to. He sat there, watching everyone enjoy their night.

He held the box closer to him, anxious to find what it could possibly hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Yoko didn’t REALLY start dating until later in 67 (and by dating I mean having an affair :0), but since Cynthia left John in this story, I’d figure that they would have probably gotten together sooner.  
> Also, while I don’t hate particularly like Yoko (what an understatement), I didn’t mean to hate on her. Since it’s written from jealous Paul’s point of view, there was no other way to write it (but you probably got that).
> 
> Also I'm putting this on wattpad for those who prefer it: (https://www.wattpad.com/story/46175763-how-to-change-the-world)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's gettin' juicy.

 

“Pa-Pau- Fucking Shit!”

With one final thrust and proclamation, John had achieved orgasm. From both people, there was heavy breathing and the smell of sex filled their nostrils. Collapsing next to his partner, John turned his head to face her disappointed face.

“Sorry about that,” he said, referring to the unpleasant outburst.

Yoko looked at John with a serious concern, shifting her weight to face him.

“That’s the third time, John. I only have so much patience.”

With an apologetic expression, John turned his attention to the floor, looking for the box of cigarettes in his pants.

“I’m sorry, luv. You know I’m trying. It’s hard, y’know,” he said, as he put the fag in his mouth.

“No. I don’t know. John, I want to help you get over him, but I’m starting to think it’s a lost cause.”

John sighed, knowing fully well there was plenty of truth to her words. But he was determined to find a way to stop his incessant attachment to Paul.

“I get it, John. You’re in love with him, and it’s-”

“Now hold on a second!” John said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth with irritation, “he was just a fuck, and I liked it a little too much. I’m not even queer, how could I love the man?!”

Yoko raised an eyebrow, giving a knowing look to John.

“I don’t know how many times you’ve told that to yourself, but I don’t think you’ve ever believed it. At least, fully.”

At first John tried to look at Yoko with a look of anger, to tried to express his “shock” with her words. But his face turned into something more fearful. He didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t allow himself to think about it. He made himself believe that it was just sex, and that men couldn’t love each other unless they were both queers.

“Fuck,” was all John could muster, but it told every word that John had bottled up.

“Like I said,” Yoko began, holding John’s arm for comfort, “I know you still love him, but I’m here to help you with that.”

Turning back to Yoko, John gave her a sad smile and kissed her on the lips. When he pulled away, he buried his face in his hands as a sign of frustration.

“God,” John said with all of the pent up anger coming up front.

“Oh John,” Yoko said as she rubbed John’s bare back, “I know it’s hard.”

“Oh my god, Yoko. I love him. I’ve loved him since I was 17 and I fucking hate it!”

John wouldn’t allow his face to be seen, partly because of the tears beginning to form, and partly because of the shame he couldn’t bear to show.

“Well,” Yoko began carefully, “if you ever feel like you want to… go back to him... I’m fine with it. From what I’ve seen, I don’t think I can stop you.”

“No no no no. That’s not fair. To you I mean. And plus I don’t want the life he has. I don’t want to hide like he does!”

John lifted his head from his shaking hands, his eyes red and watery.

“I don’t want to see you like this, John. You two need to be with each other. I’ll even stay with… as a cover, if that’s what you want.”

“What?” John said confused.

Yoko smiled. If she keeps John like this, he’ll end up resenting her. But, if she let him have Paul, he’d realize how much he hates it, and he’ll come crawling back to her. She’ll be there to pick up the pieces in the end, and it’ll all work out. It was perfect.

“You could be with Paul, and I would be your _official_ girlfriend. I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep all of these emotions inside, John. It’s perfectly healthy to express them.”

“Are you sure? I’m certainly not.”

“You mean a lot to me, John. I don’t want to be someone you end up hating.”

Slowly creeping out of the bed, John picked up his clothes, putting them on quickly.

“I-I’ll think about it. I don’t…” John walked out of the room mumbling.

~*~

Paul opened the door to his home, turning on the lights with his worn our hands. His sheepdog greeted him with a wagging tail and her paws on his pants. He carried the morning newspaper that he had failed to pick up when he was in a hurry.

“Hello Martha,” Paul said, rubbing the top of her head.

He took the few tired steps it took to get to his couch, and threw his coat and the day’s paper on the seat next to him. Today’s recording session had lasted until about two in the morning, but that was to be expected. They even decided what the album’s theme would actually be. At first he had listened to The Beach Boys album “Pet Sounds” and the band thought “Let’s do something like that!”. Something that all sounded alike and had a steady theme. Paul suggested to his band members his own idea for a theme. The Sgt. Pepper idea he had been playing around with, was well received among his fellow band members and producer. So they were planning to do an album as if another band were doing it, giving them alter egos.

And Paul thought about that for a bit. Maybe he did want to take on an alter ego.

As Paul’s eyes scanned around the room, he caught a little box sitting next to a flower pot on a small table. It was John’s gift, which Paul had yet to play. Of course, he was dying to know what John had recorded for him. But there was a fear that kept eating him at the edges. There was really nothing to be afraid of, but he just couldn’t muster the courage to open it. Damn.

Grabbing the paper from off the couch, he was surprised he didn’t see it before. It wasn’t the day’s headline, but it was certainly a significant article.

_Beatles Split?…Epstein Mum_

Well they weren’t breaking up, but interesting banter.

_Three years after instigating an entire era, the Beatles are breaking up. At least, that’s the concensus among London music observers and those close to the princes of pop. The word came as a whisper at first, but subsequent statements by Brian Esptein and the Beatles themselves have given the speculation certainty. Not to mention the unprecedented self proclamation about member Paul McCartney’s homosexuality in earlier 1966._

That made a little sense. Not true though.

_National wire services broke the story last week, and when no one in the Beatles’ organization denied it, more than 200 angry Beatles’ fans picketed Epstein’s London home in protest. Many of these fans were either diehard supporters of the music, or were supporters of McCartney’s lifestyle, and did not want to see it die._

_But not even the manager, who probably hasn’t seen his group en masse in nearly four months could deny the story._

Not true, they’re together all the time. Reading the rest of the article, it was all just speculation and evidence put together in a clever way. The author did point out how his “proclamation” affected the band, and of course that was true. With the exception of him and John, it really brought the band closer. No secrets and all. They weren’t going to bad actually. They were content with the album they were working on, and they had another bloody _movie_ on the way!

What surprised him was how normal it was. He and John have started to get along better. This, to Paul, meant not feeling a constant ache around his friend. They weren’t exactly perfect and didn’t see eachother as much (and alone not at all), but it was working. They could talk to each other and write a bit, as if it were all business. Paul wasn’t over him, and he might never be, but he could handle this, the writing, the recording, and the working all kept him from thinking about the problems. It just worked.

That was probably part of the reason why he didn’t want to listen to what John put in that box. It wouldn’t do him any good. All it could do was make the droopy feelings towards John resurface, which would ruin the album they were working on.

So it was alright. Besides Paul being a bit lonely… he could work with this for a while. He was content.

Or at least… that’s what he told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: That article was actually from December of 1966 (Even if it’s already February of 67 in this story). It didn’t include the gay parts, but it happened. If you want, read the original article here: http://krlabeat.sakionline.net/issue/3dec66.pdf


	15. Chapter 15

Paul took another sip of wine as he talked with the reporter. Today was the press launch for Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, their newest album. Though it received some bad reviews from some snobs, there were a lot of critics who thought it was ahead of the times. The band was proud of their achievements, and so were several other people.

They had the party at Brian’s house, and at the moment, that house was full with conversation and excitement.

The brief chat with the journalist ended quickly, as there were several other journalists just as anxious to get a chance to speak with Paul.

There were hoards of photographers trying to surround them as the band members regrouped. There was also a table filled with hundreds of different foods and drinks ready for consumption, that the Beatles couldn't even reach.

They were forced to bunch together, taking pictures  laughing and smiling together. The record was playing in the corner of the room, as a celebration of what took them almost six months to create.

“Alright,” one of the photographers said, “How about we show off the LP?”

Someone handed them the record, and they held it open for the press to indulge in. The flashes would have been blinding to anyone, but the Beatles were used to it.

When the photographers got a sufficient amount of photos, another man approached the four men for a brief interview. He walked up to them when they were sitting on Brian’s couch.

“Hello I’m Norrie Drummond, New Musical Express. May I ask you lot a few questions?”

“Alright,” John said, speaking for the rest of them. He was dressed rather interestingly, with a large orange puffy coat and a flamboyant green shirt. His attire was the most noticeable, but at the same time, they were all dressed flamboyantly.

“Do you believe any of your own personal beliefs or emotions can be shown in this album?”

“I've had a lot of time to think,” said John, peering at the reporter through his wire-rimmed specs, "and only now am I beginning to realize many of the things I should have known years ago. I'm getting to understand my own feelings,” he unconsciously glanced at Paul.

“Don't forget that under this frilly shirt is a hundred-year-old man who's seen and done so much, but at the same time knowing so little."

With the man’s questions, the Beatles revealed this album was a big step in their career, like a turning point.

“Since your world-wide fame was achieved by mostly singing pleasant hummable numbers, don't you feel that you may be too far ahead of record buyers?”

“No,” George said, answering the question, “People are very, very aware of what's going on around them nowadays. They think for themselves and I don't think we can ever be accused of under-estimating the intelligence of our fans.”

John interjected, “The people who have bought our records in the past must realize that we couldn't go on making the same type forever. We must change and I believe those people know this.” He looked at Paul again, not even noticing.

The man under John’s stare was on the other end of the couch, sipping a glass of champagne. The reporter moved more to Paul’s side, ready to ask even more.

As Paul greeted the reporter with a charming smile, he began his own thoughts.

"You know,” Paul said, "We've really been looking forward to this evening. We wanted to meet a few people because so many distorted stories were being printed. We have never thought about splitting up. We want to go on recording together.”

He raised his glass in the air, “The Beatles live!”

Those sitting on the couch and the reporter laughed, nodding in agreement.

As the interview ends, another group of photographers come downstairs with Neil Aspinall, road manager and friend.

"Just one more shot on the doorstep, boys," he says to them, pointing outside.

A group of photographers follow them outside, where pictures are taken of them sitting casually on the steps. They return only two minutes later and decided that it was time to eat.

George and John were successful in heading for the table, anxious to have some sustenance. Paul tried this as well, but before he could, he was cornered by two enthusiastic writers.

“Paul, can we ask you a few questions?”

“Uh… well”

“Great! How do you feel about this new album?,”

“Great, it’s very progressive,” Paul said with irritation in his voice.

“Do you think your homosexuality effected the development of this album? Were the Beatles going to break up because of your new lifestyle?”

“Er- I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate. It’s not relevant, y’know,” Paul scratched the back of his head nervously. He thought he could avoid these sorts of questions today.

The reporter who hadn’t spoken yet opened his mouth, “But surely this revelation did put you onto the brink of break up?”

“No, those rumors weren’t true- listen I’m really hungry and-”

“Just a few more questions?” the other reporter said.

Paul grunted and pushed past the annoying men until they began to follow him. He tried walking away from him, until he was cornered at a window.

“Paul, just a question?” the other reporter said.

“God what?!”

“Do you think that the British government will legalize homosexuality and other sexual offences this year, with the bill that is-”

“Listen,” Paul said looking around the house for someone who would help him, “I don’t know. I’m just a bloke. Can you please let me eat?”

But they wouldn’t stop; they started again with the invasive questions that weren’t even related to the album. Paul didn’t answer any of them, but they just kept going. It was as if Paul’s ears were being violated with an endless stream of words.

Tony, their press officer, came to the rescue with his commands. He stood at the stairs, yelling to everyone in the room.

“Alright everybody! Let’s all head to the upstairs lounge!”

The reporters sighed, leaving Paul alone when everyone else in the room began shuffling upstairs. Paul didn’t shuffle, but instead stood frozen at the window, feeling just a little sick to his stomach.

He wanted this to be a fun party; he didn’t want _that_ subject to be brought up. But of course it was going to, what was he thinking?

His mind wandered not feeling anything in that moment.

“Paul.”

He could hear his name, but his mind was still somewhere else.

“Paul?”

It sounded like…

“Paul!”

The man in question shook his head, realizing where he was and who was standing in front of him.

“John?”

John looked at him with concern, but it was more difficult to take him seriously with the scruffy hair, moustache, and flamboyant outfit. Even then, John still had an effect on Paul, no matter how ridiculous he appeared.

“Sorry I was out of it,” Paul said, his hands fidgeting.

“You okay?” John grasped Paul’s shoulder for support.

“Mhm. Just some… assholes.”

“So you’re coming upstairs?”

He shook his head. “No I need a minute.”

Paul shivered at the way John slid his hand slowly down from his shoulder, as if he were stroking his arm gently.

“I don’t think you’re okay.”

Paul tried looking at John straight in the face, trying to appear as if none of what just happened affected him. He tried. He tried to conceal the repressed feelings he’s been ignoring over the past few months. He tried to bring back the fake feeling of content he’s been putting forward, but it didn’t work. When he looked John straight in the eye, he felt like he was melting.

His bottom lip started to tremble, as he covered his mouth with a shaking hand. His body weight felt like an anchor, causing him to slide down to the floor, burying his face in his hands. John’s mouth opened, shocked at the man breaking down in front of him. The small whimper he heard from Paul made him go back to eye level with the man.

John placed his palms on Paul’s cheeks, which did nothing to alleviate the stress, in fact, only making it worse. Tears fell from Paul, wetting the fingers that were stroking his cheeks.

“Paul, i-it’s okay. Whatever happened, it’s okay.”

“God, John,” Paul said in a broken voice. “I regret this. All of this! I wish I could’ve just lived a secret life like the rest of them!”

Paul closed his eyes unable to look at John’s.

“No no no,” John said softly. He touched his forehead to Paul’s, not caring about the racing heartbeat in his chest. With all the reporters upstairs, this was probably the most stupid thing he could’ve done.

“What you did is amazing, Paul. Now there are more people than ever that realize that people like you are just people. You’re probably…the bravest bloke I know.”

John closed his eyes as well, trying not to take this moment for granted. Without overanalyzing himself, he let himself have it.

As he felt Paul’s arms embrace him, a small gasp escaped his mouth. He didn’t move, but instead stood still in that spot, hands on Paul’s cheeks. Those hands began to move slowly to Paul’s neck, feeling the soft strands of hair that had been growing there.

He opened his eyes again, and when he did, he was met with Paul’s own. They looked at each other, unthinking, but feeling everything at once. Their emotions were like weights on their shoulders, causing them to be pushed together, until their lips met.

They tugged at each others lips with the greatest desperation either of them had ever felt. Every move of the mouth felt like it was on the edge, not wanting the moment to end. Soon their tongues were intertwined with each other, slipping and sliding into different formations.

John pulled away slowly, looking at Paul once again.

“Oh God,” John said with, to the surprise of his partner, a smile.

“What is it?”

“Oh my God,” John laughed, “I’m in love with you.”

“What?”

“I love youhuf.”

John’s proclamation was interrupted with another kiss, just as desperate and wanting as he felt. 

When Paul pulled away, he gasped, making John jump back in terror.

When John heard a woman yell, “Oh my god!” he gasped as well.

Both men stood up abruptly, trying to untangle themselves from the floor, staring at the shocked blonde woman with a camera on her neck.

“I’m sorry!” she said in a noticeable American accent. “I’m terribly sorry! I should just…,” she began to walk away, but Paul grabbed her by the arm. When she turned around, she noticed the look of sheer terror on Paul’s face. He was lucky _she_ was the one to find them.

“Oh, god, please don’t tell,” Paul begged desperately at the woman. She laughed nervously, trying to put on a smile.

“No no! It’s quite alright. Your secret’s safe with me!” Lifting her hands, she tried to walk away, but was stopped when John began to walk toward her.

After she gave Paul an awkward smile for a few uncomfortable seconds, John stood in front of her, just as terrified, but with more fake confidence.

“Who are you?”

“Oh,” she said, as Paul let go of her arm, “My name’s Linda. I’m a photographer. Don’t worry I didn’t get any pictures of- Hey!”

John took the camera hanging from her neck, and smashed it on the ground.

“Shit man!” she yelled, distraught over the pieces on the floor. “You could’ve just destroyed the film! Fuck!”

“Then how do we know you’ll keep quiet?” John said.

“I don’t know? Bribe me? That camera cost a lot!”

“Well, we can still bribe you.”

Linda crossed her arms, not amused.

“Like a new camera? I wasn’t gonna say anything anyways.”

They heard another set of footsteps coming from downstairs. John and Paul prayed it wasn’t a fresh batch of reporters.

Luckily, it was just their concerned manager.

“Boys?” Brian said from atop the staircase, “are you coming up? There are several people here desperate to speak with you.”

All three of them nodded, even if Linda wasn’t one of the ‘boys’ he was referring to.

“Before that,” Paul began, “Brian, this is Linda. We’ve seen some of her photography, and it’s amazing. We want her to be our photographer.”

Linda looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Well it seems as if you became so excited you destroyed her camera.” he said, looking at the broken pieces on the floor and then back at Linda. “No matter, we’ll compensate you for it, of course. And we’d be happy to give you a job based on what John and Paul claim.”

“Oh wow!,” Linda said smiling and nodding her head, “Thank you very much! This is amazing,” she shook Brian’s hand enthusiastically.

“How about we go upstairs,” Brain started, “then you can snap a few pictures of the band, and we’ll see what happens from there?”

“Okay! Let’s do it,” she said, following Brian upstairs with anticipation.

John and Paul followed behind her, giving each other looks trying to signal the other’s emotions.

They had unfinished business to attend to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in researching the press launch, it turns out that during the party, the reporters took a special interest in Paul. I rubbed my hands at the prospect. They wouldn’t leave poor Paul alone until Tony Barrow saved the day.   
> Also Linda was at this party, and took a few pictures of the Beatles. In real life, this is when Linda and Paul really started talking to each other.  
> I can’t publish this without giving credit to http://www.beatlesinterviews.org/db1967.0519.beatles.html, it was a big help in writing this chapter. Take a look, it’s cool.


	16. Chapter 16

With a new job offer, Linda began taking photos of the Beatles after they came together again. Those images were filled with moments of laughter and joy for the time. It could not be more far from the truth for two of them.

“You two alright?” George whispered to the side as they were posing for a photo. He was referring to John and Paul, whose attitudes changed when they came to the top of the stairs.

“We’re fine,” Paul murmured to the side.

The two tense men exchanged looks, every connection of sight being as unnerving as the last. There was an unfinished thought in their looks, their eyes telling trying to tell the other a message. What did the other one think? What was going to happen?

The evening was exhausting, leaving the boys’ lips sore from the incessant smiles that were demanded of them. When the later hours began to creep up on them, they were compelled to leave, given how much a party could tire a person. George was the first to retreat, the lucky bastard. People began to clear out slowly, and soon Ringo was gone as well. John and Paul were encouraged to stay later, as they were seen as the “head” of the band, but they wanted to leave just as desperately as the rest of them.

Soon the ambience of the crowd turned into individual conversations. As the place became noticeably emptier than it was initially, John and Paul gave one another a glance from across the room. Paul tilted his head to the side, expressing his desire to leave.

Paul walked to Brian, followed by John.

“Brian, I think I’ll be heading out now. Great party, though,” Paul said, trying to quicken the interaction.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, that’s perfectly alright,” Brian said politely.

“Yeah me too,” John said, appearing from behind Paul. “I’m all partied out.”

“Well I’ll see you boys later, alright?” he said, “Have a nice evening.”

The two leaving members began to say goodbye to their friends and acquaintances, feeling as if the word “goodbye” was nothing but a empty gesture. They exited the house together, leaving the two of them doorsteps alone, wondering what their next move would be. The darkness engulfed them, their communicative looks meaning nothing now.

Paul smiled at him, but it was undetectable to his counterpart. All John felt is when Paul grabbed his wrist, pulling him away with a playful tug. He was led into Paul’s car, and sat in the back with the owner. There was a driver in the front, smiling and ready for service.

“Take us home,” Paul said, as if he were trying to hurry the driver.

“Yes, Mr. McCartney.”

There was still confusion as to what Paul’s intentions were, but John tried to push those thoughts to the edge of his mind. There were still things they needed to say to each other, things they needed to do, but John played along with Paul’s sudden burst of impulse.

After being lost in thought, his self awareness was present again when he felt Paul’s hand hold his own.

Since Paul’s house was nearby, it took less than ten minutes to arrive. But their anticipation was evident when the driver opened the door to the two men rushing out to the front door. After a fumble with the keys, they were inside, alone at last. Paul turned on the light so he could see John’s face in more detail.

They paused for a second, looking at each other, trying to absorb the other’s thoughts. They could talk, they could argue, they could do a lot of things. But it felt as if there were some sort of spell, grabbing a hold of them, pulling them together. This was only confirmed when suddenly Paul grabbed his collar, kissing him harshly, indulging in every second. He pushed John onto the couch, kissing every part of his mouth, trying to feel anything he hadn’t felt. Their bodies tangled together in a mess of limbs, rubbing and creating an exciting friction.

When John, who was under Paul, moved his hand down into Paul’s inner thigh, Paul paused. He hovered over John now, instead of delighting in the closeness as he was before. There was less of a desperate longing to his expression, instead one of realization. The way that Paul’s eyes scanned John’s figure made him question if what he had done was within boundaries.

“Sorry,” Paul said from above, “I just… I guess I need a little time,” he said with quiet words.

He pushed himself off of John to sit up alone on the other side of the couch. His nervous hands fidgeted between themselves, exposing Paul’s unwavering hesitance. 

“That’s fine, y’know. I’ll do whatever you want,” John said, trying to be as understanding as possible.

“I think we need to talk, John.”

“Alright,” John said nodding in agreement. He sat up on the couch right beside Paul’s tense body. The words felt like a sting, imagining all the things Paul could say to hurt him.

“I want to know… what _you_ want,” he swallowed the lump in his throat, “what about Yoko, John? You’ve been with her for a while and-”

Shaking his head, John took Paul’s hand with an unrelenting determination.

 

"She said that... She could be a cover. That you and me could be together, and she'll be there fooling people into thinking I have a normal life.”

Paul didn’t say anything, looking at the floor as if he were processing the information he was just given.

“I don’t know, John. I don’t want to keep you from anything, like you said I would.”

John shook his head in disagreement, adamant now about his feelings, “Fuck, Paul. The only thing I’m being kept from is you. I won’t be hiding if I’m with you, I’ll be hiding if I’m with some wife who thinks I’m in love with her.”

Paul looked up from the floor into John’s pleading eyes.

“How do I know that’s true?”

He didn’t have an answer that could convince Paul. The only answer was his presence, the emotion in his eyes. He couldn’t put his undaunted passion into words that would do it justice. In a panic, John looked around the room for something, _anything_ to assure Paul of his sincerity.

Then he saw the box, the one that he gave to Paul as a gift. He stood abruptly, before Paul could make out any words. John grabbed the lonesome box from the table, holding it in the air for Paul to see.

“This. It’s _everything_. Everything I want to say, it’s in the music.”

The man still sitting on the couch stared, wondering what he had to say in response.  

“I never… opened it.” Paul said only loudly enough so John could hear. After John heard those words, he began moving objects in Paul’s house, walking frantically from one location to the next, breaking a vase in the process.

“What are you doing?!”

“Looking for a tape player, you twat,” John said over his shoulder.

Paul watched with nervous eyes as John rummaged through his house, not attempting to calm him. John held the box in one hand, protecting it safely, and used the other hand to make Paul’s house look like a crime scene.

Without Paul’s help, John found a reel to reel tape player, holding it up triumphantly, and placing it on the coffee table.

John put the reel onto the machine as quickly as possible, trying not to damage anything. If not, this display would have been for nothing.

He hit play, and a piano broke the pregnant silence. It was a rough recording, akin to the ones they used to do in the very early days of their musical career.

John slowly walked over to the couch as the melancholy piano rang through the air. He sat himself next to Paul, trying to look him in the eye. It was difficult, because Paul kept his gaze at the tape.

Then John’s scruffy voice began to sing.

_I know it's true; it's all because of you_

_And if I make it through, it's all because of you_

Paul’s eyes stayed in place, expression unchanging.

_And now and then, if we must start again_

_Well we were not sure, that I love you_

Paul’s eyes fell shut, his face still holding the same stoic expression.

_I don't want to lose you - oh no, no, no_

_Lose you or abuse you - oh no, no, no, sweet doll_

John watched as Paul’s lips trembled into a faint smile. He scooted over subtly, trying to close the distance.

_But if you have to go, away_

_If you have to go...I wouldn’t know what to do_

When John was within the proper distance, he clasped Paul’s hand, causing the other man’s eyes to open. His open eyes moved from the tape player to John’s face, and Paul’s faint smile turned into a straight line.

_Now and then, I miss you_

_Oh now and then, I...want you to return to me_

_I know it's true to me..._

The loose fingers hanging on the couch together intertwined into a stable hold. Paul’s eyes fell from John’s face, to their fingers, feeling everything in that single touch.

_I don't want to lose you - oh no, no, no_

_Abuse you or confuse you - oh no, no, no, sweet darlin’_

Every movement was carefully executed as John brought his body closer, never letting go of Paul’s hand. He took Paul’s face in his empty hand, lightly stroking his cheek. Paul scanned his face one more, bringing back the smile that had previously fallen.

_But if you had to go, away_

_Well I won't stop you babe_

_And if you had to go_

_Well..._

Those final words of the song ended with John’s piano, just as it had started, every note and chord left an imprint on his mind. One half of their intertwined hands were gone, which John saw at first as a bad sign. It wasn’t until he felt two hands on his face that he felt the reassurance wash over him.

Paul pushed John beneath him, hovering over him and examining his state. His hands took a hold of John’s wrists, so that the man was completely vulnerable under his touch. John let himself submit under Paul’s hand, closing his eyes and waiting for Paul’s cue.

The man on top of him watched as his band mate let himself become vulnerable to his will. It wasn’t often that one could see John allowing himself to be submissive, _especially_ with a partner.

All John heard was Paul’s harsh breaths and the silence of the room. For a second he lost hope that Paul would ever move, but then he felt his glasses being lifted from his face. The glasses slid off carefully, but then were tossed to the side hastily. John’s eyes opened, looking up at Paul’s longing stare. They looked at each other for a moment, silent and unmoving. In an instant, Paul let himself drop onto John’s lips, suckling them as if his life depended on it. He held John’s body in his arms, closely and tightly, just to make sure that the other man was still there. A set of hands found its way onto Paul’s back, holding with just as much desperation as Paul had.

Their mouths intertwined together like their hands were a second ago, steady and able. They flicked their tongues past each other, feeling every part of each other’s mouths, exploring new regions they hadn’t found before.

To the other man’s discontent, Paul pulled back, but not for some interruption or reason. Instead, he let his head collapse onto John’s chest, listening to the man’s heartbeat, and feeling his chest rise. Those actions gave Paul enough reassurance that John was still in his arms. He let out a breath and closed his eyes.

His final memory before falling asleep was John’s hand running through his hair, pushing any worry to the back of his mind.  

~*~

 John’s hand crept up his hair, falling lightly on the top of his head. The hand brushed away his loose strands, and repeating the process over again. Paul’s eyes fluttered open, still absorbing the gentle waves from his serene state. Under his palm, he felt the fabric of a shirt rising and falling as the man who wore it breathed with ease.  

Paul looked up at John’s face, noticing that the other man’s eyes were closed. He was able to catch more details of the man’s expression, as the sun was up and traveling through the curtains in rays. As John felt the weight on his chest lessen, his eyes opened, looking down at the man who had fallen asleep in his arms.

The man being held pushed himself up to be level with John’s face. Their lips pressed together lazily, letting their mouths flow in a sloppy rhythm. Paul moaned into the older man’s mouth, feeling waves of pleasure take him over as he positioned himself atop of John. Now being able to see all of John’s body, he ran a hand down the frills of John’s shirt. The other man closed his eyes, letting Paul explore the buttons on his shirt.

                Paul took the buttons in his hand, undoing each of them at a painfully slow pace. With every new button undone, more of John’s bare chest was revealed. He undid the last button, revealing John’s entire torso. John opened his eyes again, watching as Paul ran a hand down…down to… _oh._

                A small whimper escaped from John’s lips as Paul grabbed a hold of John’s clothed hardness.

“Y’know, It’s okay, Paul. You don’t have to do thi-oh Fuck!” John was interrupted when Paul’s grasp tightened, “-unless you want to!”

Paul smiled at him with the most lust filled smiled he’d ever seen. Grabbing a hold of John’s zipper, he opened it completely, revealing the beginnings of his underwear. The man on top lowered his mouth to John’s ear, whispering something that made John shiver.

“I _want_ to.”

In John’s head, it was official now; he was completely under Paul’s influence.

~*~

They spent most of the afternoon in Paul’s bedroom room, and if someone were to stand outside it would have sounded like giggles and pouncing. When they were together, everything was gone. It was their own little world, a concept that brought them to their demise sometimes, but today was perhaps an exception. Every second was something alluring and passionate, and even if their sudden “I love you”s were muffled and haste, every word meant as much as the largest declarations.

They reached a point where they collapsed in each other’s arms, unable to go on further. After the extremity of what they’ve just done, they entered a more composed state. All they needed in this moment was the comfort and assurance that the two of them were still there.

A happy sigh escaped Paul’s lips as he burrowed himself into John’s breast.

“Damn,” John said, making Paul look up questioningly.

“What is it?”

“Didn’t Ringo invite us over today?”

“He did, didn’t he?”

“Well,” John said, looking down at Paul’s disheveled hair, “I’d rather be here, frankly. I don’t think I _ever_ want to leave your side.”

“You daft sod,” Paul said jokingly as he kissed John’s cheek.

He had taken John’s final words as a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I noticed a big error in this chapter after reading it. If there's any mistakes, please tell me so I can fix it.
> 
> In January 1994, Paul McCartney was given two tape cassettes by Lennon's widow Yoko Ono that included home recordings of songs Lennon never completed or released commercially. On one of the tapes, the words "for Paul" had been scrawled hastily in John's handwriting. The songs on the tape included "Grow Old With Me" and "Now and Then".  
> The song featured is “Now and Then” which you can listen to here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8ea7yucstc  
> Ringo also really did invite them for tea.


	17. Chapter 17

Cavendish Avenue was Paul McCartney’s home, where he lived and worked. It fuelled memories and moments that he’s been making since he began living there in 1966. Beyond being Paul’s place of rest, it was also where several meetings among the Beatles would take place. Being walking distance from the studio, it was an ideal place to gather, and conveniently located in the heart of London.

Today was one of those days, as the Beatles were sitting around Paul’s coffee table, sipping tea, just how they liked it. They had finished recording “All You Need is Love” that day and were discussing their upcoming movie based on their upcoming album.

“So then it’ll start filming in about September,” Paul said, restating the information he learned with his band mates, “and we could probably get this out before the year ends.”

“Very ambitious,” Ringo said sipping from his cup, “but sounds fun.”

“And,” Paul said, knowing that this would cause groans from the group, “since we do have a three film contract, they’re beginning to work on our _next_ next one.”

“Don’t tell me we have to act in it, I’m bloody tired of that shit,” John complained, raising his head to the ceiling in discontent.

“It’s alright, don’t worry,” Paul reassured him, “they want to make it animated like a Disney movie.”

A sideways smile appeared on John’s face.

“Well that’s good, isn’t it?”

George looked at his friends as finished his doughnut before beginning his next words, “That’s a lot of work. I wish sometimes we could isolate ourselves from the world and live on an island or somethin’.”

“Y’know George that’s not a bad idea,” John said as he pointed at the man.

Paul, who was sitting next to him on the couch, looked up at surprise.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Think about it,” John said as he began to paint a picture in their heads, “We could all live together there with our friends and such. It'll be fantastic, all on our own on this island. We’ll put up little houses which we'll do up and knock together and live communally.” His description of it was a little far from the picture in his head, one of him and Paul being able to express their affections out in the open.

“Sounds nice,” Paul said as he put a hand on John’s shoulder, “but that sounds like wishful thinking to me.”

“Why is it wishful thinking? Aren’t we fucking rich?” John responded with a slight chuckle.

“Well, that part is true,” Ringo said as he put a fag to his lips, “the real question is where?”

John put a thoughtful hand on his chin.

“Greece?” he finally said.

“Greece?” Paul responded, lifting an eyebrow, “why?”

“Why not?” John responded, mocking Paul’s lifted brow.

Wagging a finger in the air at John, he chuckled and nodded his head.

“Can’t argue with that, can I?”

“Hey, hey,” George interjected, “let’s at least visit the place first!”

“You guys surely can’t be serious? A bloody island?” Paul searched the faces of his band members for some truth. He jumped a little when he felt John’s hands on his ear, ready to whisper something in secret.

_“We’ve done it in Paris, don’t you want to do it in Greece?”_

Those words made Paul eyes widen significantly as he felt a light blush creep onto his face. The other people present took notice, confused as to what John could’ve said. Paul laughed like a naughty school girl as John pulled away.

As he cleared his throat, Paul tried to sound professional nodding his head jokingly.

“Yes. That’s quite the convincing argument, Mr. Lennon.”

“Now I have to know,” Ringo said, playfully agitated at his own ignorance, “What did he say?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” George said, turning to his annoyed band mate. Paul put a hand to his mouth as he giggled at the thought.

“So I guess that means we’re going to vacation in Greece?” Ringo said, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“Why not?” John responded quickly.

George nodded in agreement, “Can’t argue with that.”

~*~

A few days after their drug induced impulses about buying an island and visiting Greece, the band was granted a day off for rest. Enjoying their day off from recording, John and Paul sat alone at Kenwood, John’s place of residence. The home was more isolated from people, as opposed to Paul’s home in the city. They were watching a little bit of television, taking solace in each other’s arms. It was calmer now; there wasn’t as much desperation as there was a month ago. The feeling was more… domestic.

That was until the phone rang, scaring Paul out of John’s arms.

“Christ that scared the shit out of me!” Paul said, trying to regain his composure. He shook his head, moving his hand towards the phone. “I’ll get it, luv.”

He picked up the phone, raising it to his ear.

“Hello?”

_“Hello is John there?”_

The woman’s voice on the other end sounded familiar, but Paul couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“May I ask who is calling?”

_“This is- this is Yoko. May I please speak to John?”_

Paul frowned, covering the receiver. He turned to John again.

“It’s Yoko,” he said, trying to be quiet so the woman on the other line wouldn’t hear.

Biting his lip as evidence to his tension, John nodded, “Alright, pass it over”

He passed the phone to John’s hand, questioning what Yoko’s intentions were.

“Hello?” John spoke into the phone with a quiet hesitation.

_“John? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”_

“Oh well, y’know,” John said twirling the chord, “I’ve been busy… with things.”

 _“Obviously,”_ she gave a tired sigh, _“Don’t we have an image to keep, John?”_

“Ah, that. Yes, well…”

_“Why don’t we see each other for dinner? Somewhere public where people can see us?”_

“Oh,” John looked at Paul, who was staring back at him questioningly. “I guess we can do that. I’ll give you a call later, though… I’m a bit busy.”

_“Goodbye John.”_

“Bye,” John said, hanging the phone up. The other person on the couch looked at him, expecting some sort of explanation.

“What did she want?” Paul said, leaning against the palm of his hand.

“I dunno, something about our image,” John said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Nodding slowly, Paul’s eyes fell to the ground. Noticing this, John tried to reassure Paul in any way he could.

“It’s all for show, Paul. You know that. It’s nothing, that’s all.”

Knowing that to be true, Paul crossed his arms and sighed.

“I get it John. This isn’t the first time.”

A confused look furrowed John’s brow, realizing what Paul was talking about. John began to speak, “So you’ve,” he swallowed, “you’ve had more like me, then?”

“Oh John,” Paul said shaking his head with a smug look, “I’ve had plenty like you.”

There was a small hurt expression that appeared on John’s face, but Paul dismissed it with a laugh.

“Don’t worry, Johnny. None of it really meant anything… Besides,” he stopped for a second to climb atop of John and straddle his waste, “I was too busy pining after you to fall in love with anyone.”

John’s arms wrapped around Paul’s waste, the hurt expression replaced by a playful one.

“Is that so?” he said with a happy chuckle.

“Mhm,” he said, leaning down to give John a sloppy kiss.

As they began their amorous endeavors, they hadn’t taken notice to the television that remained on. This particular story would have been of great interest to them, as British parliament debating on whether homosexuality should be legalized.

But they were distracted, unaware of the developing story. That didn’t stop those watching at home, however. The more interesting side of what was happening was that the government was _actually_ being sympathetic towards homosexuals.

And to the hopeful fans and the worried adults at home, that was a first.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Beatles were actually pretty serious about buying an island. We’ll see what happens.  
> Also next chapter will come really soon because this ones tiny. Stay tuned.
> 
> Hey guys, during the copy paste process when I update a chapter, some things get messed up. Of there are any errors or if anything's off, please tell me if I dont catch it. Thanks.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now here's a big chapter all of a sudden since the last one was tiny. Enjoy!

_John Lennon- Secret LOVE affair?_

_John Lennon of the Beatles, who has not been seen with his wife Cynthia in almost a year, has been spotted in the heart of London with… another woman? To any outsiders, the dinner would have seemed like any romantic candlelight between a couple, but to fans, it is a confusing sight. The woman, who has been identified as Yoko Ono, is a notable figure in the art community, more specifically, in the avant-garde. Not much is known about what their relationship is, but this isn’t the first time the couple has been seen together in an intimate context._

_To our knowledge, John is still married to Cynthia Lennon, who also mothers his four year old son, Julian. The family has not been spotted together in recent times, nor has the press seen any of his wife and son at all. At first, the assumption was that it was a choice of privacy, but sources say otherwise. We have yet to hear from Lennon himself, leaving many wondering- Is the marriage between John and Cynthia over? We can only speculate at the time, but the answer is almost certain: yes (cont. on pg 5)._

~*~

With a calm smile, Paul’s gaze fixed itself on the aeroplane window, looking at the clouds below him. Those clouds were still English ones, as Greece wouldn’t be close for a while. Nevertheless, the company of his inner circle left him untroubled in the quiet and private jet. Paul was surprised he hadn’t heard more noise from his friends in the aircraft, but was content with what he had.

                Seats were arranged in twos, everyone sitting next to the partner of their choosing. To the surprise of no one, John and Paul grouped together as they always had. But they weren’t talking or laughing. John was asleep next to him, looking deep into his slumber. A light grin appeared on Paul’s face as he peered over to his quiet counterpart.

                The plane was boarded by John and Paul, of course, but there were also other members of his social group. George’s wife’s sister Paula, friend Magic Alex, friend Mal Evans and friend Alistair Taylor were among the friends visiting Greece with them, ready to enjoy a few days of relaxation. George and Ringo had left a day in advance, however for personal reasons.

One of the great parts of this trip was the fact that they had been granted diplomatic immunity, giving them access to do almost anything they wanted in Greece. Of course, they weren’t going to murder anyone, but John had stashed a bag of drugs that they were anticipating to explore. Paul hadn’t been too keen on the idea of spending the entire trip high, especially after a small scandal about him admitting to taking LSD, but at least it wasn’t illegal for them to do it here.

Taking another sip from the drink on his tray, Paul noticed out of the corner of his eye John beginning to shift out of sleep. Paul turned completely towards the man sitting next to him as the person who was previously asleep began to open his eyes.

“Mmmm,” John groaned, still half asleep, “are we there yet, luv?”

“You know, we’ve only been in the air for about twenty minutes,” Paul said, taking another smug drink from his glass.

There was another audible groan that escaped John’s lips before he gave into the time, resting his head on Paul’s shoulder.

“Wake me up when we get there,” was his final mumble before closing his eyes.

“Just promise me you won’t wake up every twenty minutes to ask me the same thing,” Paul said jokingly, almost to himself as John was barely listening. He didn’t fail to notice minute contact from John’s head sending a warmth through his chest. He would’ve enjoyed it to its full extent if he didn’t have to turn around every second to make sure no one was watching.

“Mmmm,” was all John responded before he let his tension go, once again falling asleep.

It was that domestic feel to the way John’s head leaned against his shoulder that made Paul’s chest burn the way it did. As if it hasn’t just been two months since they’ve been... whatever they were. It felt as if they’ve been in each other’s arms for years, knowing every part of each other. While Paul had a certain attraction to the romanticized life of the traveling rock star, he enjoyed the stability of having someone to depend on.

A smile crept onto his face as Paul let himself submit to John’s alluring state of serenity. He leant his own head over John’s head, resting comfortably over the heat of his partner.

He hadn’t realized the extreme grin that wouldn’t leave his face as he fell asleep as well.

~*~

When they had finally arrived in Greece, they had intended to take their yacht, the MV Arvi, around some of the coastlines to get a glimpse of what they were in for. However, Mother Nature had other intentions for our group of adventurers. A storm on the seas meant that they wouldn’t be able to get onto the boat until two days into their trip. Those few days were disappointing as well, as their arrival had been broadcast on Athens Radio, causing hoards of fans and journalist to follow them around while they tried to sight see. Their nights, as a result, were spent locked up in a hotel, so they wouldn’t cause trouble by gathering a crowd of people. It hadn’t exactly been a bad thing for John and Paul, as their nights in the hotel were spent to the fullest, completely _enjoying_ the privacy and rarity of an empty room.

“P-Paul oh God!”

                The words came no doubt from John Lennon, happy with the fact that he no longer had to hold the name back at the height of his pleasures. With harsh breaths and groans he let himself slowly fall onto Paul’s naked body, grabbing hold of the man under him as if it were protection.

“I love you,” he whispered into Paul’s chest.

It was rare that you would find John clasped onto the body of a lover like females usually did to him, but rarity or not, it felt _right._ Not to say that John didn’t hold any dominance in the dynamic they’ve developed, he didn’t feel uncomfortable on the submissive side, enjoying the worriless state that Paul’s arms brought him.

In a response to John’s words, Paul said with half lidded eyes, recovering from his own high, “I love you too.”

It was soft and forgiving, knowing fully well what the words meant to the both of them.

                But after a few days of enjoyed solitude, they were allowed onto their exclusive yacht, with chefs, beds, and anything you could need to live for a few days. Paul was leaned over the railing of the yacht as the boat began to leave the port. He watched the horizon, looking at the distant bodies of land ahead of them. Since he thought the space next to him was empty, he was surprised to see John next to him when he turned to the side.

“Oh,” Paul said when he noticed the man next to him. John turned to him with a nod and smile, looking back out in the distance, just as Paul was.

“You really think we’re gonna do it?” Paul asked, breaking the silence forming between them.

“You mean buy an island?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” John began as he kept his eyes ahead, “but it’s nice to get away, y’know.”

“Mmm,” he responded in an acknowledging hum, “I don’t really know if I would want to do it anyways.”

The man next to him turned, sighing as Paul turned his body to face John’s. He took notice to the slight disappointment in John’s face.

“Well that’s a drag, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“Are you kidding?” John laughed as he turned his body once again to the outside of the yacht, “most of this idea was only fueled by the thought of being on a private island with you.”

Following John’s actions, Paul turned back to the ocean as well.

“Ah well… I guess I’m more of a city person.”

“In that case,” John’s body leaned closer to his counterpart’s, his hand creeping onto the other’s, “I guess I’m a city person, too.”

Turning to face John and looking into his sincere eyes, he placed a chaste kiss on John’s lips, savoring a sweet moment for the both of them. For a moment, they were at peace, alone on the deck. Or at least, that’s what they had thought until George’s voice came from behind.

For a split second, it felt like red alert. But only for a split second.

“Hello, lads,” George walked up to them smiling. The two men on the railing pulled away with a jump, wondering if their friend would confront them about what he was witnessing. But they were wrong in thinking that their friend was anything but happy for them.

“Oh, don’t do that,” George said, referring to their sudden retraction, “I’m here to see the outside, not be a stick in the mud.”

Coming down from their sudden fright, the two men smiled at George, who simply joined them to enjoy the view. After a few moments of self-indulgent silence, George sighed as he began to move away from the rail. The other members looked at him, wondering what he was going to do next.

“Anyone fancy a bit of swimming?”

~*~

When the members of the party regrouped in the later hours of the day, they were all expecting and anticipating what they were about to do. George, Ringo, George’s wife Pattie, Mal, Paula, and of course John and Paul, sat together in the interior of the yacht in a circle. George was playing a ukulele to the side, giving the atmosphere a soothing touch.

Taking out tablets of LSD from his bag, John passed them around to the circle of friends. He finally gave one to Paul, sitting next to him and took one out for himself, before he popped it in his mouth. John let his body droop to the floor, lying on his back to wait for the effect to kick in. Surely it would be about half an hour, so he calmed himself. He let his eyes fall shut, waiting.

_Two._

It had felt like a second later when he opened his eyes to a singing and laughing group. He sat up, the sudden whip of his body In the upright position causing an overload of senses. Everything felt in motion, as if he could feel the colors in the air, crazy as the thought was. Every minute became an intricate expansion of ever wandering thoughts. John bobbed his head and laughed with his friends, hearing them sing “Hare Krishna” along with George. The sound of music engulfed him, like a warm symphony of blankets, even if it was just one man and a ukulele.

But he realized that it wasn’t just the music embracing him. Paul was tugging at John’s torso, trying to pull him in. He looked down at Paul with a smile, undisturbed by the fact that there were other people in the room. Everything in that moment felt objective, unaffected by the weight of the world or anything that had ever happened before.

John lay back down against the wooden floor of the boat, feeling Paul descend with him, holding onto his side. Everyone took notice to this, but they didn’t see it as some scandalous thing. They saw it for what it was, in its purest and richest form. Mal, who was near John and Paul’s side, turned to the two on the floor and laughed playfully.

“Wonderful,” He said simply, returning his unfocused thoughts to George’s frantic song.

The arms around John’s waist crept into the inside of his shirt, making contact with his flesh, feeling icy-hot at the very touch. John shivered, feeling every second as it went by in flashes of ecstasy. The hand running up and down through his clothing stopped at his chest, resting there, creating a warm pool of feeling where it stopped.

No one said anything negative, as no one was under the influence of the critical world they were brought up in. When they looked at the sight on the floor, they saw unadulterated affection and nothing more. There were no glaring eyes, but there were only thoughtful glances and smiles being spared. Pattie even showed her encouragement by trying to shower her husband with the same touches of affection.

John felt Paul’s warm breath laugh at his side. He felt Paul whispering something into his ear, which was busy being overloaded by the sounds surrounding them.

“I love you,” Paul tried to repeat again into John’s occupied ears. He wasn’t disappointed when he saw John smile at the ceiling and say nothing, because he knew with great confidence that John meant every word of it back. He tucked himself back into John’s side, feeling his heartbeat like a drum becoming music of its own.

                With every subjective thought gone, the only part left of him was the primal core of his thoughts. Parading through his mind with the greatest confidence was one thing, unchanging and ever standing: John.

~*~

On any other day, Paul would have said that they were being a little bit insane, but this was of course, not any other day.

The group of friends was on the upper deck of the yacht, dancing in a circle as John played the ukulele George previously held. No one thought it was odd (aside from the sober crew) as they chanted little songs holding hands, it just felt like something surreal. It was a peaceful, connecting moment. They had even forgotten that they were supposed to be looking at an island.

After the wonderful experience of last night, they had enough acid left over to repeat the experience several more times.

They sat in the sun all day, enjoying each other’s company, looking at the islands with more thoughts and experience than a business trip would’ve given. It didn’t seem like the “businessy” trip that they had initially set it out to be.  The past few days were more of an exploration, an experience. To the surprise of no one, John and Paul explored each other’s company, trying to feel every moment of each other. And the kisses- _my God_ , the kisses- felt like an explosion of senses every time they performed the act. And at times it was in front of an audience. Their friends didn’t care, and what a wonderful thing that was for them.

The islands were something beautiful, it’s what they came for after all. But in the end, they stopped caring about the island.

There were memories there to be made, when they finally settled down a bit to watch the sun set together. Their friends, family, and loved ones sat looking at the horizon with a drug induced content.

Those few days of peace, however, were only that. Just a few more days of peace.

 Little did they know that peace would soon be a distant concept for them.


	19. Chapter 19

With no hesitation or anxiety, the plane landed at Heathrow airport, on an impossibly sunny day. After a delightful trip to Greece, John, Paul, and close members of their circle, with the exception of George and Ringo who had left earlier, were finally escaping the aircraft that had kept them in such a confined space. The trip left them in an energetic state, feeling closer and more connected as people. They were ready to go back to their homes, write songs, and live in comfort; however the sight outside of their window was unprecedented.

                As John and Paul stood from their seats, the sight outside caught Paul’s attention. Referring to the blob of reporters and photographers outside the window, Paul made it clear for John to look out the window.

“Christ, I didn’t know people were that excited to see us back,” Paul said, wondering if he should exit the plane at this point.

Finally processing the crowd, John stared at the outside picture in confusion.

“Holy hell, you sure that’s why they’re here?,” John said, thinking the worst possible scenario.

Fearing his own thoughts, Paul asked, “Well then… what could it be?”

The two men stared at each other, scanning each other’s looks, hoping for some doubt that they weren’t thinking the same thing. No, it couldn’t be true… they couldn’t have been… _caught._

But it had to be! Perhaps they were too loud in the hotel? Someone blabbed about them on the boat? They were so sloppy that it _had_ to be it! _Right?_ But that was ridiculous, this was just panicked thought, there was a reasonable explanation that they needed to find.

Other friends who were now heading to the exit of the plane, came behind them, stopped by the way the two men looked at the window with shock. Paula approached them from behind, making them jump a little when she said, “Whoa.”

“What the hell,” Mal said, also coming from behind, “crowd’s not for us is it?”

“Not exactly,” Paul said to Mal without his gaze averting from the window, “Might be for _us_.” His head tilted in a way that pointed to both him and John, causing a questionable look from Mal. For a second, Mal looked at them as confused as he was, and then the realization hit him. Looking between the two men, his worst fears were confirmed, turning him almost as white as John and Paul were. Oh no.

“Alright alright!” Mal said, trying to calm his friends with a pat on the shoulders, “we don’t know that? Could be anything, right?”

“What’s going on here?” another voice said, one belonging to their friend Magic Alex, who was also a member on the plane, “Could be what?!”

Paul shook his head, turning back to Mal.

“What in the hell else could this be?”

“Well,” Mal tried to speak, “for, um…”

He lost his words, grasping for anything important, anything that it could be, anything but _that_.

“Fuck,” John said, turning to the friends who were looking at the window with them, “Let’s just get out of this damn plane, who gives a shit what the reporters say?”

John pushed past the group, picking up his suitcase and making his way towards the exit, which was being opened, courtesy of the crew. He peeked outside to the faces of several journalists, all singing one hymn of “John! John!”

Turning to face those who weren’t set on leaving yet, John encouraged them to follow him out.

“C’mon!” John said, waving at everyone now looking at him, “Let’s get on with it, then!”

Now picking up his own luggage, Paul looked back at John, who looked fearless to everyone else. But Paul knew damn well when John’s eyes held fake confidence. He could tell from a distance, even under the wire frame of John’s glasses.

He strutted towards his partner, not quite letting the reporters outside see him yet. Standing at John’s side now, he looked at his face once more, only to be greeted by a smile and nod. Slowly, John stepped out of the aeroplane, closely followed by Paul behind. The voices of the reporters became more evident with every step, but their intentions did not. Their friends followed them close behind, anxious to find out what this mass of people could be here for. Despite their frantic thoughts, it was no Beatlemania, but it certainly was a sizeable crowd.

Once the reporters spotted Paul coming down from the steps, the screams turned from “John!” to “Paul!” in an instance, suddenly taking all of the interest in him. Surely, if he had been claustrophobic, he’d be terrified by the mob shoving microphones in his face, but he was terrified for an entirely different reason.

He did his best to ignore the yells as he walked down the steps, waiting when they’d finally be in the hands of the bodyguards at the end of the steps and the car just a few steps ahead of them.

But then he heard something interesting.

At first it was just flashes of the words “Legalized!” and “Sodomy!” that made him turn his head. When those words properly processed in his ears, he took the chance to speak to the next microphone that was shoved in his face.

“Mr. McCartney, just a few words?”

The polite manner of how the words were spoken also caught his attention, causing his focus to turn to the young woman with the microphone. John noticed the sudden stop in the corner of his eye, walking the one step back to where Paul stood.

“Alright, what is it?” Paul said trying to be as polite as possible in his anxious state.

“How do you feel about the Sexual Offences Act reaching royal assent?”

Paul’s face crumpled in confusion at the words. The subject sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Excuse me?”

“The Sexual Offences Act? It legalizes homosexual acts between men ages 21 and over. Do you have any thoughts on this?”

“It did?!” John said, interrupting the conversation from behind. Her eyes told him that she wasn’t prepared for John’s bold over enthusiasm at the news.

“Oh yes, of course, John. Have you not been following the news?!,” Paul said, turning back to his partner, trying to make it seem as if he knew what he was talking about. Though he was probably tripping balls in Greece at the time this was passed, how could he have forgotten its very existence? Certainly the media didn’t help at broadcasting the fact to the publics attention.

“Well,” Paul said into the microphone, trying to sound all knowing, “Well… I’m a homosexual, y’know. Now I’m just delighted that I can say that without being condemned as a criminal.”

“And as a heterosexual!” John said from behind Paul, yelling lowder than he should have, “I’m glad my best friend can legally shag me!”

With a look of shock, both Paul and the woman gave John the most flabbergasted expression on the planet. Realizing that his half-joke may have been a bit… _out there_ … he retracted. He laughed nonchalantly at their expressions, forcing a laugh.

“It’s a joke!” John yelled as Paul pushed him down the stairs. The woman stood there, watching them run down the steps and escape into their vehicle.

~*~

“Well, look at that, you’re on the front page! Kind of!” John said, “ _Queers Won’t Go to Jail_!”

Paul snatched the newspaper from his friend’s hand, trying to read the sensationalist headline for himself. John would have put up a fight for it, but since the backseat of the car was small, it really wasn’t worth it. It was true; Paul’s face was on the front, however smaller than the picture of congress which was taking most of the article. They used Paul’s story as a way to make the story more interesting and relatable. It even took over the other big story about the Rolling Stones drug bust.

“I can’t believe it,” Paul said, putting down the newspaper, looking at the distance in shock. He couldn’t help it, he really wanted to, but he couldn’t. He was able to control his tears, but he couldn’t help the wetness that grew in his eyes.

“Oh,” John referred to Paul’s expression making. The hand on his back soothed him, rubbing circles in comfort. “You… alright?”

Paul sniffled, trying to reassure himself that this wasn’t some sort of dream.

“Yeah… it’s just, y’know,” he sighed, staring John in the face with red eyes, “I’ve been taught to hide this all my life, and maybe now that it’s written on paper… people don’t have to go through some of the shit that I’ve…”

He shook his head, trying to shake away the silly thought and unfinished sentence. There was no way this wouldn’t be anything other than a sickness to people. Legal or not, it wasn’t normal.

John took the newspaper from Paul’s lap while still reassuring Paul with the strokes on his back. He read the article while the other man stood in silence, feeling sick and happy at the same time.

“You know this could be written alot worse,” John said after finishing the article, “Some people are happy about this… and a lot of them thank _you_.”

Looking over at John with an expression of disbelief, he waiting for further explanation.

“I mean, there’s a bunch of kids saying they opened their mind because of you. Hell, they’re happy for you, Paul. Think about all the people you’ve inspired!”

Paul still looked at him in silence, before giving him a sad smile, scooting closer to the warmth of the other man. They formed into one, with John’s arms cradling over Paul’s tense body, which was slowly starting to ease itself. He felt Paul’s hair graze the underside of his chin, taking solace in the warmth and stability of that moment.

“So,” John said, breaking the silence between them with humor, “are we going to yours or mine?”

Paul flashed a tired smirk under John’s chin, before answering, “We can be as loud as we want at yours.”

Pulling away from Paul to give him a suggestive look, John laughed excitedly.

“That’s the spirit! Let us celebrate!”

John lowered the window separating the driver from the passenger’s seat, yelling that their next stop was Kenwood.

~*~

“Apple Core?”

“Apple _Corps_.”

“What happened to Beatles and Co?”

“We like this name better.”

Brian looked at the four Beatles questionably, nodding along with their efforts. Paul was the one speaking to him, the subject being: a new company.

It had come to the conclusions of the members that they wanted to form their own company, one that would encompass all of their music, media, and anything else they wanted to add to their Beatle brand. As far as a name went, Paul thought of “Apple” because it was simple, but charming. The first thing a child learns is that “A is for Apple”, after all.

“You all like that name then?” Brian asked the band members, receiving a nod from the lot of them.

“So what we’re wanting,” Paul said, commenting, “We want an executive board, you, Neil, and Alistair.”

“Alright, so under this arrangement,” Brian began, thinking of how the funds could be arranged, “Each of you would own 5% of Beatles and Co... I mean, Apple, and a new corporation owned collectively by all four of you would be given control of the remaining 80% of Apple. With the exception of individual songwriting royalties, which would still be paid directly to the writer or writers of a particular song, all of the money earned by the Beatles as a group would go directly to Beatles and Co. and would thus be taxed at a far lower corporate tax rate.”

“Got it,” John said, understanding only most of it. He was eager to understand it fully, however. The prospect of their own company was thrilling.

Brian began again, “And the business can be held here at NEMS until we get our own building… Now is there anything else you’d like to explore with this?”

“Let’s do clothes and stuff.”

The Beatles looked at John, interested in the outburst.

“A beautiful place where you can buy beautiful things, a boutique,” John said in a jokingly posh voice.

“That’s certainly doable, considering the funds you have here,” Brian said in encouragement, “Why don’t we get down to more business? Let’s actually put this idea into motion.”

The four men faced Brian’s desk in focus, the new idea seeming like a new opportunity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The “Queers Won’t Go To Jail” original picture from when the Beatles arrived from Greece was actually “Stones Won’t Go To Jail”. Look at it here because it’s cool:   
> http://oi58.tinypic.com/2q99vk9.jpg


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Little bit of a short bridge chapter here, but it’s necessary. I promise the... downfall... will begin soon. *rubs hands together* Also here to tell you that normal updates will now officially be on Tuesdays, since school exists and I have a stricter schedule.

 

The cab was quiet aside from the conversation going on inside. Their faces were only lit by the moonlight, night taking over a few hours ago. Two of the passengers in the back of the car regarded each other with a friendly temper, however, the thoughts floating in their head would have said otherwise.

“So I was wondering,” Yoko spoke to John, looking at him in the darkness, “why’d you shave the facial hair? It looks nice shaven, by the way.”

John was silent for a while before his lighthearted response came.

“I like variety, y’know.”

Though he couldn’t see her face in the poorly lit seat, she nodded to herself, realizing now that the cab was approaching her home. A few moments of empty silence passed before they arrived in front of Yoko’s door, the street empty.

“I’ll walk you outside,” John said acknowledging where they were. Yoko nodded, exiting the cab to her front steps. They walked in silence with a quiet lingering tension, wondering what their relationship was, not to the media, but to them. They stopped in front of her door, looking at each other with a silent regard.

“Thanks for the dinner,” she said, finding a form of breaking the ice.

“Yeah well…. You’re welcome.”

The two of them looked at each other, but held different thoughts in their head. Yoko expected something more. John expected her goodbyes. Both of them stood there waiting.

Their thoughts were silenced when Yoko looked up to John, closing the gap between them with a kiss. It wasn’t passionate or sensual in any way. Her kiss was a desperate plead- a plead that John failed to answer when his lips stood unmoving. She pulled away quickly, searching John’s eyes for an answer, receiving a cold stare in response.

“Sorry,” John said, unsure what his apologies were for.

“John, I… What are we? A few months ago we were clinging for each other, now I don’t even hear from you.”

“I-I don’t,” he trailed off, looking at the ground, “I… I love him, Yoko. I don’t want to damage that.”

They both understood who the person in question was.

“Are you sure that’s what you want, John? You can be free with me. You’ve already gone and fucked him, it’s time to come back.”

Her persistence went on when John’s silence was apparent.

“Are you sure that’s the life you want, John? There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s not a nice life to live.”

Her words burned deep, his own thoughts revealing to say the same thing. Everything she said was true, he was hiding. But it was worth it, the fact that he could still fall back into Paul’s arms at the end of the day. Loving him was worth the strife, despite what the logic in him screamed.

Now with wide eyes, he looked at her with determination, standing by his own thoughts. He leaned close to her face, and for a second she had thought she’d won. When his lips touched her cheek instead of her expectant mouth, she frowned in disappointment.

“G’night, Yoko,” he said after pressing his icy lips to her face. Making sure not to look her in the eye, he walked away in confidence back to the cab.

Yoko stood on the steps, watching as the automobile drove away, leaving her alone in the darkness.

~*~

Five in the morning was an ungodly hour to John; he figured that if the sun wasn’t up yet, people shouldn’t be up either. That’s why when he heard the phone blast next to his bed at that time, he grumbled in agitation. Whoever was calling him must sure have a lot of balls.

He rose from his bed with a mess of hair, stretching his toes after a deep sleep. Grabbing the telephone seemed like a vigorous exercise in his state. He cleared his throat in a half cough and half grumble as he put his ear onto the phone.

“Hello?” He spoke into the receiver with a garbled voice. He surprised himself that he could keep his composure despite how aggravate he was.

_“Hello, John… It’s me.”_

Aggravation turned into disbelief, which then turned into shock. The woman’s voice on the other line made him freeze in his place, concerned that the woman was who he suspected it was. His eyes grew wide in accordance with his appall, and his mouth struggled to ask her name.

“C-Cynthia?”

For a second he thought the silence on the other line was an indication to her absence, almost relieved at the prospect. But the tired breathing he heard over the line confirmed that the woman was there in silence.

_“I’m sorry you haven’t heard from me… It’s just….”_

“No! I understand Cyn, y’know. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

On the other side of the conversation, Cynthia hesitated, unsure if this call was the right thing to do.

_“I know that this is a bit haste… and that I probably should have called sooner, but I think I’ve-I’ve come to terms with what’s been, and that Julian shouldn’t have to go on without seeing his father.”_

John bit his lip in frustration, his heart pounding incessantly against his ribcage.

“So what does that mean… for me?”

_“I think,”_ she sighed nervously, _“perhaps you can start seeing him again. Maybe a visit or something.”_

John considered her words to himself before beginning his next proposition.

“Can I talk to him?”

_“He’s asleep now.”_

“Oh.”

For a few moments longer, a tense silence lingered between the two before Cynthia spoke again.

_“You’ll see him soon John…I’ve got to go, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”_

“Cyn, just… tell him I love him, alright?”

Another silence found its way into their conversation, and then Cynthia sighed before speaking her final words.

_“Goodbye, John.”_

The phone hung up, leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts. There was a chance he could see his son again, a chance that his son won’t just be the absent father that he dreaded to be. Talking to Cynthia had left him restless, thinking about how such a quick moment could affect him.

He smiled to himself as he fell back onto his bed, a mix of anxiousness, anticipation, and fear filling up taking over his thoughts. Then he remembered that it was five in the morning, and that he should probably get some sleep. With all of everything loitering in his mind, it was hard to put himself to rest.

Shifting in his bed, he stared at the ceiling in quiet contemplation. Did Cynthia forgive him? Would Paul be able to see Julian too? After all, Julian was quite fond of Paul… but it was still all so uncertain. Cynthia and him weren’t even officially divorced, which is something he should probably take care of.

He didn’t know what to do about everything right there and then, all he did was look at his clock, which made him remember that he should probably close his eyes. With a quiet and final sigh, he let himself fall into a dreamless sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

                Eastern tradition had always been a point of interest for the Beatles, introduced to them by George, the ideas were interesting. The calmness and peace it brought them was satisfying, something they wanted to pursue. So when George, John, and Paul had met Maharishi Mahesh Yogi at one of his lectures, it inspired them to delve further into this fascinating world. The words he spoke in seminar made them eager for more, and now they were on their way to Wales to attend a ten day conference on Transcendental Meditation.

They’ve been searching for something that would fulfill their need for deeper meaning. At first, drugs had been their answer, and it had been an interesting experience, but after hearing the guru’s words, they realized that meditation brought them a better experience of peace than narcotics did.

So of course, they had made the haste decision to take a nice trip to Wales to delve deeper into meditation, much to George’s delight. The train ride to Bangor, was uneventful, besides getting to have a chat with the insightful Maharishi. They had a respect for him as a mentor, but there was also a mutual respect, as the Beatles quick ability to learn and understand his ideas impressed the guru.

So there they were, headed to Bangor College to sleep in a less than luxurious dorm room. A dorm room which’s space only accommodated two people at a time. The other Beatles predictably chose their wives as dorm mates, but John and Paul, not having wives (at least active ones) were able to sleep in the same room, even if they had to retire to bunk beds.

What greeted them when they arrived in Wales were screaming fans at the train station, and several more in front of Bangor College. Beatles sightings were becoming rarer and rarer, given that the Beatles spent most of their time in a studio, or at their homes. A crowd was something they had expected and accepted as part of the trip, and even signed a few autographs before they decided to grab dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Interestingly enough, none of them had money, so George pulled a £20 note out of his sandal.

And it was nice, for a while. When everyone headed back to their dorms for the night, John and Paul even had the chance to nestled in the bottom bunk together, talking and sneaking kisses in the lonesome (but not empty) room. As much as they tried to fall asleep, it was nice to be self aware of the fact that the other one was there.

“You know I like you clean shaven. Feels better on the lips,” Paul’s voice rang in the darkness.

“Hmm, not the first time someone’s said they like it shaven .”

“Really? Who else?”

For a second, he froze at the answer, and rather than answering the question, he changed the subject.

“It’s gettin’ late, maybe we should at least try sleeping.”

Ignoring the way John suddenly tensed at a simple question, he nodded against John’s neck, closing his own eyes, feeling the weight of the day starting to lessen. John attempted the same thing, but found it difficult to do something other than stare at the darkness above him.

~*~

The following day had brought the actual conference, which brought the Beatles, which brought the crowds. In fact, the Beatles had been invited on stage with Maharishi, speaking for a small while alongside the guru.

The man was someone who could bring an entire audience delight, and often had a smile of his own plastered on his face. He often spoke about his meditation techniques, and how one can reach levels of higher consciousness. Even if the Beatles where the famous ones in the rooms, what was being said attracted more attention to those he longed to hear it.

Eventually after speaking in front of an audience, they were able to speak with him personally. The four of them, along with their wives, joined him in a room filled with flowers. The flowers were only a testament to the life inside of the spacious room.

They sat in circle, cross legged, as they listened to his words on high consciousness.

“Happiness comes from self awareness,” he said to them, “self awareness from self acceptance. To look at oneself objectively and to become a complete man.”

With a smile he looked at his listeners again, “Meditation can alleviate the stresses that you have, but identifying the source of that stress is helpful in eliminating that stress. A man cannot be happy, if he is not happy with himself.”

“Hiding can take the form of stress, which will ultimately ruin your goals of happiness,” he spoke again. Now he faced John and Paul, who were sitting next to each other, with a knowing look. They glanced at him simultaneously, wondering why his attention had been drawn to them.

“I know the truth can be a hard thing,” he said, and though his words could be interpreted for all, this felt more personal. It felt especially made for _them_.

“But hiding is much harder.”

Without subtlety, it was clear that his words were meant for them, and meant for a certain aspect of them. A more irrational fear took John over, a stark denial being expressed.

“We’re not,” John swallowed, stumbling over his words with nervous laughter, “hiding anythin’. It’s all out in the open, I mean just look at Paul! The four of us don’t have much to hide.”

The man sat next to him said nothing, merely looking from John to the guru in silence.

“This is not a place of judgment, John.”

An angry laugh escaped John, despite his attempts of keeping his composure.

“Well, you let Paul in here, didn’t you? I know that much!”

As he looked back and forth from John, who at this point was unreasonably angry, to Maharishi, Paul contemplated to himself how much the guru actually knew. The other Beatles and their wives who were also silent bystanders in the altercation, knew that _something_ went on between John and Paul, at least from what they remember in Greece. But to hear the couple admit it openly was another thing entirely than to see LSD influenced affections, which could have happened to anyone.

“The _both_ of you are in here, John,” the guru said in a lighthearted tone, contrasting John’s agitation. Though, those words made John’s roughness turn into something weaker, something more akin to fear.

“I am not here to force you into a confession,” Maharishi said again, calm but serious, “I am here to guide you into the truth. Some of us are not ready, and that’s okay. But it does everyone good to let your worries go.”

Until that moment, John felt as if he were holding his breath. Now letting out a sigh of defeat, he moved his look away from Maharishi’s eye, instead to Paul’s. He was met with Paul’s sympathetic gaze, his look giving him enough encouragement to free himself. The man who had previously been fuming, closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath. His eyes opened quickly once again when he felt Paul take his hand as a sign of support.

Before looking back at Maharishi, he flashed Paul a smile, the grip on the other’s hand unrelentingly.

“I’m sorry… I just don’t like this stuff out in the open,” John said apologetically.

“Of course, that’s understandable. But this is not the open. You are among friends,” Maharishi replied understandably.

They smiled at each other, before he began to delve into another subject.

“Now that the air is free, we can focus on the mantras. I will find then within you, give you one to help you enter another realm of consciousness.”

The words made the group excited; as they were anxious from the moment they met Maharishi to receive a mantra- a chant that would assist them during their meditation.

He took them one by one, having everyone leave the room except the person receiving their own personal phrase. It gave them a sense of accomplishment, to have their own phrase to say. Who knew what wonders they could do now, having a resource to achieve peace. And how they longed for peace.

~*~

It was when they returned from a late Sunday lunch when they heard the phone ringing from the hall. John and Paul were returning to their dormitory, the phone ringing their entire trip in the hall until they finally entered their dorm.

Opening the door to their room, Paul grunted and walked over to the phone.

“What in the hell do you think is so important that they have to call for ten minutes straight?” Paul grumbled to John as he found his way to the source of constant ringing.

John threw himself on the bottom bunk of their bed, “Beats the hell out of me. You should probably answer it, though.”

“Right.”

He picked the phone up, his ears thanking him for the release from the constant ringing.

“Hello?”

_“Paul!? It’s Peter!”_

So it was just Brian’s assistant. Not unusual since Brian had been planning on perhaps joining them. But what was it that was so urgent?

“This is him.”

_“I don’t know how to say this…”_

The other end was in silence for a few seconds, before Paul broke it with questions. Concern began to tug at him.

“What is it?”

_“It’s Brian… he’s… gone.”_

The dread with which those words were spoken pulled at his heart, making it beat at quicker pace.

“Gone where?”

More anxious silence.

_“H-he’s dead. This morning, we found him. He’s passed away, Paul.”_

Now the silence came from Paul on the other end. It felt as if he’d just been stabbed in the stomach, almost nauseated at the thought. Brian? Dead? Even the thought felt impossible. Even John noticed the way his friend suddenly tensed and turned completely pale.

“What happened?” John said, standing up from the bed to walk to Paul.

The words wouldn’t come out, because the words didn’t feel true. He tried to clear his throat and say something, his mouth opening, but nothing coming out. The only thing his mouth did was frown, his eyes only revealing shock.

_“Paul… are you there?”_

He realized that the man on the other line was still there.

“Y-yes! We’ll be there right away, Peter. I-I… goodbye.”

He hung up the phone, almost dropping it in the attempt. Looking John in the eye again was even harder, as his friend’s look of concern had matched his look from a few seconds ago.

“Paul, what’s going on?”

“Brian is- he’s… not…”

The words still wouldn’t come out, feeling as if he said it himself, that it would actually be true.

“Paul?”

“Brian’s dead,” he said, pushing the words in a mumble.

The other man’s face fell just as much as Paul’s did, a look of disbelief taking him over.

“Not funny. What _really_ happened, Paul?”

He couldn’t say it again. He didn’t respond. Instead, his face crumpled in a look of sorrow. For some reason he felt he should cry, but the tears never came. John watched Paul’s own shock, his own face turning white, his eyes wide open.

“No… that can’t be. He was- he was coming here! We talked to him a little bit ago!”

John paced the room frantically, hands running through his hair during his anxious strut. With trembling hand, he hit the wall with a weak force, only hurting his hand in the process.

“How could that bastard go and die on us?!”

In an effort to comfort the figure burying his head into the wall, Paul followed him, placing a concerned hand on his back for comfort. The figure tensed as he felt the comfort of his friend, but soon after, trying to relax into its affection. John breathed in slowly, turning back to face Paul, his eyes red.

“We have to tell the others,” John said, his voice a little hoarse.

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other, and while John should’ve sought the comfort of an embrace, instead he pushed past Paul, walking out the door.

~*~

“I don't know what to say. We've only just heard, and it's hard to think of things to say. But he was just... He was a warm fellow, you know, and it's terrible,” John was with the group, he didn’t know why he was speaking for them, though.

The cameras and microphones in front of them did nothing to ease their grief. But perhaps it was just part of being famous, where they had to capture every one of your emotions on film. Even with the passing of a friend, they only gave you a few hours to process it before expecting you to craft an essay on their life.

“What are your plans now?”

“We haven't made any, you know. I mean, we've only just heard.”

“Yes, you know-- It's as much news to us as it is to everybody else,” Ringo joined in on the conversation.

“John, where would you be today without Mr. Epstein?”

“I don't know,” John started again.

“Are you driving down to London tonight?”

“Yes. Somebody's taking us down. Yeah.”                                                  

“You heard the news this afternoon, I believe, and Paul's already gone down?”

“Yes.”

Another reporter came to them with more cameras, they were just saying words now, too shocked to believe in them

“Have you a tribute that you would like to pay to Mr. Epstein?”

“Well you know... We don't know what to say. We loved him and he was one of us,” there wasn’t much more John could say on the spot.

“You can't pay tribute in words,” George began to speak for him.

“What are your plans now?”

“To return to London, and do whatever we can.”

“Did the Maharishi give you any words of comfort?”

“Meditation gives you confidence enough to withstand something like this, even the short amount we've had,” responded John.

George began his own words again, “There's no real such thing as death anyway. I mean, it's death on a physical level, but life goes on everywhere... and you just keep going, really. The thing about the comfort is to know that he's ok.”

Their words were a technicality, a nice piece for the reporters to print. They really wanted to believe in what they were saying, that everything was going to be alright. But it didn’t feel like it. Somehow, they forced themselves to believe that it was fine, that everything was okay, and on a deeper level, they almost believed it.

At least, for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, friends. Also... if you see any erm... mistakes, please tell me. I try to read it over and over but there's a point where I just can't catch 'em. Comments are appreciated. :)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I was able to get some stuff from the ruins of my old computer, and edit it around, so here it is. An update. More to come indefinitely.

Five days flew by as Brian’s passing became a painful memory. Even in the wake of tragedy, something in Paul compelled him to unite the group for a discussion of their next project. He’ll admit that he didn’t have that great of a desire to have to manage their projects, now with their manager gone, but it needed to be done. The Beatles couldn’t mope around, that wasn’t an option. Now that it was just them, lost in riches they can hardly manage. But it would turn out in their favor. The four of them were a team, in more ways than most imagined. Whatever hardship faced them, it would be together. Equal. Even if Brian was gone, someone had to take initiative, even if that had to be him to push John as well. As much as their manager and friend’s death hurt them deeply, moping and doing nothing would have done them no good.

               He sat on his house at Cavendish, watching the telly, until he heard the intercom go off. Realizing what the time was, he turned off his TV set, opening the gates to his home. Paul watched the car drive in, a man walking out and knocking at his door. Before he could knock again, Paul whipped the door open, greeting the man on the other side.

“Hello, Tony.”

“Am I on time?”

“Certainly,” Paul said as he moved to the side, allowing their publicist to walk in his home.

As Tony made his way into the dining room, where their discussion would be held, Paul’s sheepdog decided to jump on him, almost knocking him over.

“Oh!” He said, petting the dog down.

“Martha, c’mon,” Paul said as Martha wagged her tail and strutted away, “Sorry, Tony.”

Paul sat across from Tony at the dining table, before realizing he was empty handed. He stood up again, grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen.

“So you’re probably wondering,” Paul began, “I want the group to press on with the Magical Mystery Tour, and I’ve got it all planned out and everythin’. We just need to develop it a little.”

Across from him, Tony nodded, continuing with the conversation.

“Are you sure you don’t want to postpone this? We could wait a little while, I mean it’s so soon…”

“No, I think it’s better to start now. We can’t be thinkin’ about what happened all the time. We’ve got to move on.”

Not outwardly questioning Paul’s judgment, he reluctantly nodded. He was his employer after all.

“I’ll sketch it out for you.”

Paul took the pen in his hand and began to draw a circle.

~*~

For the fifth time today, Paul opened the door to his final guest. Ringo stared back at him apologetically.

“Sorry, I’m late. Little Jason was cranky, and it got sort of hectic.”

Paul smiled understandably at the troubles of fatherhood, “It’s alright. Come in, we’re all in the dining room.”

Together they walked back into the dining room, where John, George, and Tony stared back at them. Ringo sat across from Paul, next to Tony. George was at the head of the dining table, and John had taken the seat next to Paul. Clearing his throat, Paul sat back at the table, looking at the expectant faces.

“Well… I think what has happened… is horrible. I think everyone here can say that they’re a bit emotionally drained, if not, I know that I am... That being said,” Paul looked around to everyone, feeling something odd about the control he had, “we still need to think about our future. We have to get this movie out, and the filming is supposed to start in about a week…”

“A week?!” John next to him yelled, “Now, I get that you want to get it done, Paul. But give us some time…” John ran a hand through his hair, giving Paul an exhausted look.

“For what?”

“Huh?”

“Time for what?”

Shaking his head in confusion, John thought it felt obvious enough that it didn’t need explanation.

“I don’t know, to grieve?” John said as if he were saying the most simple thing to a child. Paul retorted with a laugh, shaking his head. An action, which in retrospect, Paul realized was insulting to the other half of their team.

“We can’t be moping around forever, y’know,” Paul said immediately after.

“Oh Paul,” John laughed condescendingly, “Is it your place to tell people not to mope around?”

For a second Paul’s eyes went wide, trying to hide to the others the weight of John’s words. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. A team supported each other. His eyebrows furrowed into an angry stare, John realizing that maybe he shouldn’t have voiced his thoughts out loud.

John opened his mouth for a second to say sorry, but then he closed it again, holding a still deadly stare. He felt like apologizing, but it never came. The yells were over for now, and all Paul could hear was the drumbeat in his chest.

 

~*~

 

_Thud_

_Thud_

_Thud_

It was after the third thud that Paul’s eyes opened. Especially after enjoying such a pleasant dream, it was quite a nuisance to be disturbed by the sound of a rock against his window. He should have expected nothing better from John than to be woken up at two in the morning. He had only hoped his father hadn’t heard John’s efforts to nearly break his window. It certainly wouldn’t help the teenage rebel image that his dad constructed of John. Which honestly wasn’t too far from the truth.

In a lazy effort to stand, Paul trudged to the window, running a loose hand through his hair and using the other one to cover a yawn. As he lifted the window, he noticed his friend staring at the ground outside, kicking the dirt absently. John looked up at the sound of Paul’s appearance, curtly nodding back at his tired friend. A sigh escaped Paul’s lips as he met John’s eyes, and then gestured at him to meet him in the front.

It was a marvelous feat that Paul could tiptoe his way around the loud floors of his home, trying not to allude to the unwelcomed guest. When he opened the front door of his home, John was staring back at him.

“What the hell, John?” Paul said in a harsh but hushed tone, referring to the sudden intrusion.

John laughed nervously and placed a gentle hand on Paul’s chest, only to push him out of the doorway with it and walk inside. The thuds of John’s boots were enough to elicit a groan from the younger one.

“Bloody hell,” Paul said running barefoot upstairs to catch up.

He eventually made it back to his room, trying not to cause unnecessary noise as he did so. Closing the door behind him, he threw a glare at his friend who was now taking up the room of his bed.

With an annoyed, yet tired, smirk, Paul questioned, “So what is it that brought you here at two in the morning?”

“Aww, c’mon. Can’t a bloke visit his mate?”

Eyeing another suspicious glare, Paul sat next to John on the bed, yawning as he did.

“Alright,” Paul yawned again, “but I believe 2 a.m. is a bit much, y’know?”

“Right,” John said, which only added to Paul’s suspicions that there was something more to this visit than John alluded.

“You alright?”

John’s gaze left the wall directly in front of him, and turned to meet Paul’s eyes. It was almost a halt as Paul crashed into John’s brick wall of a stare. The sudden stop was broken when John laughed as nervously as when he had walked in. He then reached for the box of cigarettes in his pocket.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, his voice now transforming into the same wall.

He took a fag out from its box, placing it between his lips. The gesture was trivial. Trivial until he noticed the tremble of John’s hands as they weakly tried to reach his mouth. John reached for his lighter, and was almost successful in lighting the cigarette in his mouth, had John not dropped the lighter on the floor due to his unsteady grasp. His lips trembled along with his hands, trying to cover it from Paul as he reached down once again for the lighter on the floor. Paul could only stand as a bystander for so long, reaching out for John’s arm and lifting his frame back to face him.

“What is it, John?”

For a second John stared back at Paul with all the composure he could settle for. But his limit was reached, broken in a second as his trembling lips turned into a sob. He buried his face into Paul’s chest, the other boy surprised at the sudden closeness between them. Paul began a reassuring rub on John’s back; aching to know what it was that could have broken John so much.

“Tell me, please.”

He could hear John clear his throat as he began in a vulnerable whisper, “She’s dead.”

“What?”

“She’s dead, Paul.”

“Who?”

“I only just got to know her again, and she’s dead!”

“John...” Paul tried to put the pieces together, no longer concerned with the volume, but rather the feelings of his counterpart.

“Why does everyone have to leave me, Paul? Even my own mum doesn’t love me!”

Paul’s worst suspicions were confirmed as he swallowed in shock at the revelation.

“She didn’t leave you, John. You can’t control life and death.”

John responded neither in words nor in sob. He sat stationary on Paul’s chest, only trembling slightly, making sure no one could see the gentle tears that forced themselves from his eyes.

“I’m right here, John. I won’t leave you.”

John’s arms, which were buried close in between their chests, now escaped the small gap between the two boys. They found their way around Paul, grasping at his sides.

They weren’t thinking about the world around them. Not what people would say about them, not the noise that they were causing, or what they themselves had to say about the moment. For a few minutes, they sat there together, comforting each other when they needed it the most. Bonding over their perceived abandonment, and the reassurance their pain would end here, knowing that they would never truly be alone. They were a team, through thick and thin, life and death.

~*~

Turning away from John’s stare he looked to George and Ringo.

“What do you guys think?”

In some of the same way John did, George opened his mouth, and for a few seconds nothing escaped as he looked between Paul and John.

“I-I don’t know. I…” he looked back at Paul, an angry stare meeting him back, “Maybe we should start working now, I guess,” he said, almost in a mumble.

Ringo looked from George to Tony to John and Paul, his face uncomfortable. All he could say was an unconfident, “Yeah.”

With a defeated sigh, John gave up his endeavors. The room felt draped in uncomfortable silence.

“Okay, is there a,” John trailed off, “do you have a plan, at least?” John’s head rested on his hand. Paul nodded, pointing down at the scribbled circle on his piece of paper. “Uh,” John looked questioningly at the paper, “What?”

Paul reversed the paper so that now it appeared right side up to John, George, Ringo and Tony.

“So as it is right now, there would be eight sequences, and each of us would take care of our own scenes, and make them how we like. So I have some key things that we could cover.”

The circle that appeared as a pie chart to them had words written into each section of the circle: Commercial, Introduce Tour, Get On Coach, Courier Introduces, Recruiting, Marathon, Laboratory Sequence, Stripper & Band, and End Song.

“So by next week,” Paul began again, “we’d need to find the actors, finish up the songs, get costumes, a bus, and whatever we need to make this film happen.”

“Is that possible?,” George said, almost overwhelmed.

“We’re the fucking Beatles, George. We could probably get this done in a day,” Paul said, laughing as he turned back to John.

They shared an inorganic smile, a gesture of charity, as a repair for something that was beginning to crumble. After all they were a team, forever a team, even without their coach.


End file.
